


Acquainted with the Night

by Vathara



Series: Urban Legends [43]
Category: Daredevil (TV), Gargoyles (TV), The Sentinel (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Crossover, Don't copy to another site, Originally Posted on FanFiction.Net
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2018-12-08
Packaged: 2019-09-14 13:49:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 26,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16914024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vathara/pseuds/Vathara
Summary: A murder witness goes on the run... to Cascade.





	1. Chapter 1

Sunset came to a Cascade apartment building in a scatter of pigeons, a crackle of breaking stone, a roar of strength pent-up and chained while day lasted-

And a down-wash of rain that soaked the waking gargoyle to her amber skin. "Aw, _man_..."

"S-s-sorry," the thirteen-year-old blond huddled in the far corner of the rooftop managed. Sorties of rain shot past his black umbrella, spreading dark patches over a gray backpack and streaking navy down worn jeans. "I - you wouldn't wake up, Viv, and I didn't know-"

"It's all right, Es. The Rainier U. Marching Band couldn't wake me up in the daytime. Not when I'm like this." Amber talons shimmered, shrank into thinner, human hands. Vivian Cannon set bare heels to the chill of wet roof, shivered as she got under her brother's umbrella. _Brr... forgot how lousy the West Coast could get._ "Better?"

Es stared. "How'd you do that?"

"I don't know. It just works." She shivered again, chafed her arms under her wool sweater. The seams in the back might be necessary in one form, but they were two cold gaps when she was human. "Did you tell Dad? Or Sarah?"

He shook his head, walking with her into the dry shelter of the building stairwell. "Mom thinks I'm at the library, and Dad..." Es shook off the umbrella, not meeting her gaze. "Well, you know Dad."

Yeah. She knew. Mr. If-it's-not-a-floor-plan, it-doesn't-exist. _Guess I just wished I didn't_ , Viv thought, opening her own backpack. She pawed past observation notes and a wallet of ID, the few fragments of her life she'd managed to grab dashing out of New York, and dragged out a pair of broken-in sneakers. "Thanks."

"I brought you some lunch," Es offered, unzipping his pack. A waft of peanut butter and bacon hit her nose, coupled with a crisp bite of apple. "Viv - if you're really in trouble, can't you just come home? We could call the cops-"

"They _own_ the cops!" Viv squeezed her eyes shut, fought back the tears. Tired... she was so tired. First that whole weirdness that'd hit Manhattan, then fighting to stay at Columbia when her fellow grad students were terrified of her... god, she was terrified of _herself_. And now...

"Maybe in New York they do." Es folded his arms. "But this is Cascade. You ever checked the Major Crimes solve rate? They're awesome!"

Trust Es to know. Twenty-one and he'd be into the Academy and gone, no matter what their father wanted. "Maybe," Viv said wearily. "I just - I need to _think_ , Es. I need to think." She scraped together a smile. "Don't tell them I'm here, okay?"

Eyes gray as her own turned stubborn, ducked away. "Okay. But you should tell them, Viv. They could help!"

"I'll think about it." Huddled on herself, Viv listened to her brother clatter down the stairs. _I'm okay. I got this far. I'm still alive._

_There's got to be a way out of this._

_I just need to think_.

* * *

  
"Yeah. Yeah, I got you. We got it covered. Yeah. Boss'll be happy to hear you don't forget what you owe." Ignatius Calabrese closed his cell, grinned. "Easy money."

Dorcea Kant draped herself over her lover's arm, rubbing her leather top against the muscles under a denim jacket. "Who was that, Ig?"

"Guy out New York way owes Elliot a favor," the biker leader shrugged. "Says there's a contract might be coming this way. We pick it up, we got an in with the East Coast." He leered at her. "And a nice, big chunk of change."

"Big enough to buy... pretty things?" the brunette cooed. "Who do we have to kill?"

"Not you, sweetness." He trapped her fingers, nibbled them. "Moves you have with safes, shouldn't hurt your pretty hands with somebody stupid enough to be in the wrong place, the wrong time."

"Aw." Dorcea pouted. "I would, you know. For you." She gave him a wicked smile. _One more week, and I'll know who Elliot is. Then your gang will be mine... and we'll see whose hands get hurt._ "So who is it? It won't be easy, you know. Not here."

"One dumb broad, thinking with her feet?" Ig made a rude gesture. "Even Cascade cops have to know there's trouble before they can drop the hammer. Word is, East Coast Feds stepped in it but good; they're not gonna let the locals in on this one. Nah. This is a _college_ kid. She's got no friends, no brains, and no chance. She's dead." Teeth gleamed, bright as the gold wrapping his neck. "She just don't know it yet."

* * *

  
"And with Mr. Lee's fish safely in the hands of Jessie's chef - I don't even want to know how you pulled that off-"

"Henri gets bored working with red meat," Matt Murdock shrugged. It was amazing what gossip you could pick up strolling through Hell's Kitchen day after day. Especially when you could hear a whisper a block away. "Jessie doesn't want to scare off her paying customers, so she wants him to try out the fish recipes on a small scale first."

"Great. Whatever. So we can finally see our way to clearing Mr. Lee's fees for services rendered in real cash. All I'm saying is-" Foggy's arm was a blur of echoes against early morning traffic, silver on black, a _swish_ of a foam ball once more missing the office net. "You need a break, Matt."

Matt fingered the medallion at his neck; a Greek good-luck charm, skin-warm dots of Braille down its back. "I'm fine."

"Uh-huh." Skepticism rang through his partner's tone, overwhelming even the rapid beat of his heart. "You've been through every hospital and federal agency in the five boroughs. The captain of that SWAT team put on caller ID just so he'd know it was you. The head of Missing Persons called me and asked if I knew anybody you could talk to. And not in a good way." Nelson paused, drew in a sharp breath. "She's not _here_ , Matt."

_Elektra_. It still hurt; as if her sai had gone through his own heart. "She has to be somewhere."

Foggy thumped his head on a handbook of New York property law. "Matt-"

Matt lost the rest of it in a rush of footsteps, echoing on the street outside. Quick, impatient; a shorter man, weaving his way through the crowd with the take-no-prisoners stride of a longtime resident of Hell's Kitchen. A rustle of damp trench coat. A pounding heart; a good heartbeat, solid, despite the cloud of stale cigarette smoke and faint mint bite of nicotine gum.

Oh no.

Ben Urich pushed through their office door. Stood there a moment, matching gazes with a blind man.

"Mr. Urich," Foggy said brightly. "What can our firm do for the _Post_ today?"

"Not the _Post_. Not exactly." The reporter sighed. "I need your help."

* * *

  
_Two hours ago._

"So while there might not be alligators in the sewers, there definitely were will'owisps in the storm drains," Ben Urich murmured under his breath, heading for his desk at the _Post_ on automatic pilot. He might do most of his writing in his apartment, but the editors liked to see his face every other day or so. If only to be sure the guy who'd broken the story on the Kingpin was still breathing. "Like we always say, if you can't take the H.E.A.T., stay out of New York." Ben shook his head. "Still needs something." Oh well. The words would come once he sat down at his keyboard. They always did-

"Take it all," a firm, federal voice instructed. "The tape, the machine, anything attached."

"Hey. Hey!" Urich dodged a looming police officer, poked his head into his closet of an office in time to see two Feds about to make off with his answering machine. "What's going on here?"

"Benjamin Urich? Special Agents Flynn Cox and Ella Foster." The male FBI agent flashed his badge, moved to block the shorter reporter from his partner. "We're in the process of locating a Federal witness. Sorry for the inconvenience-"

_You got nothing on Manolis, mister_. Practice slipping through police lines let Urich slide past, punch the tape out of his machine before the lady Fed could snatch it. "That's evidence in an ongoing investigation-" the brunette started.

"And last I checked, this is my office." Ben gave her a civil nod. "So if you'll excuse me..."

But Cox was a lump of cheap-suited muscle in the doorway. And he wasn't alone.

"Urich." His chief editor, Devona Fairchild, carefully made-up face as sour as a bowl-full of crabapples. "They've got a warrant."

"I got a right to protect my sources," Ben argued.

"Take it up with the judge." Cox moved in, a mean glint in blue eyes.

"Flynn." Foster pressed her lips together. "Mr. Urich, this woman's not implicated in any crime. But if we don't find her, nobody will be able to protect her."

"I know New York Missing Persons," Ben said warily, tape tucked into his right coat pocket. He'd met them often enough the past week, usually just before or after Matt Murdock had blazed through. "You're not them."

"No." Cox looked all too happy about that. Held out an imperious hand.

"I'll get the guys downstairs to make you a copy," Ben shrugged.

Now Foster was starting to look unhappy. "Her life is in danger, Mr. Urich. We're taking the tape."

"Okay," the reporter said easily. Nimble fingers shuffled the debris in his pocket. "After the guys get me a copy."

"Of the real tape," Foster said wryly. "Not whatever you just switched."

Damn. Not subtle enough. "Shall we?"

* * *

  
"...So I came here," the reporter finished.

"Ah, why?" Foggy ventured. "Not that we wouldn't appreciate you as a client, Mr. Urich, but I don't see much of a case here."

"Yeah. Not much of a case." Echoes traced a flutter of movement, a click as Urich co-opted the office tape player.

_Beep_. "-Can't you pick up!" A young woman's voice; rushed, shaking, with an odd timbre to it Matt couldn't quite place. "Oh who am I kidding, nobody's up at one in the morning, oh god... They killed him. So much blood. I _saw_ it, Mr. Urich, I saw it all..."

Dry sobs; the shuddering breath of someone who'd been shutting everything out, pushing herself to just keep going, keep moving, keep breathing. "I was up on the ledge, on fifteenth floor. You know, Jericho's nest? Just some observations on the chicks. And I heard - I heard something weird-"

Deep breath. "I heard this guy say, _Palermo, your problem is, you just won't play._ " A shaky sigh. "I know. Up there, the wind, that far - I know! It's just - it's the wind, you know? Ever since that night..." A dry swallow. "So I looked. I just looked. And there were these four guys, standing by a window across the street. Two of them were holding onto this one guy, the whole arm-lock bit - he _really_ didn't want to be there, you know?

"So the guy kind of straightens up and says, _Graves, come on, we can talk about this_ -

" _Oh, you already talked, didn't you, Palermo?_ Says Graves. _Or should I say, Mr. Hill._ Kind of sarcastic, you know? _Cute deal you cut with the Feds._ _Too bad our friend in Justice knew right where to find you._ "

Foggy swore under his breath.

"And- and then... one of them took out a knife, and he started - it was so red, so fast-" The woman gulped. "I j-just ran. I got back inside, I hit the stairs - and I just _ran_. Didn't even think to call the cops until I almost hit the subway. I'm so sorry....

"And they shot at me! I was right outside my apartment, I just called the cops, I didn't call anyone else, I didn't _tell_ anyone else. They couldn't have seen me but _somebody tried to kill me_."

Her voice was drained now, almost swamped by the whistle of a train in the distance. "I don't know what to do. Maybe you do. I'm just - going." _Click._

_Definitely something odd about the voice_ , Matt thought. "Play it again."

"Matt!" Foggy hissed. "We shouldn't even be listening to this!"

Matt tilted his head at his partner. "Foggy-"

"Do you have any idea what this means?" Disbelief rang through Foggy's voice. "It could be a leak! In Witness Protection!"

"Feds seem to think so." Urich leaned against a bookcase. "They're everywhere. Like a bunch of wet hornets."

"Matt, I know we need bigger cases, but this is not the way to go." Foggy shook, like a St. Bernard shedding water. "I'm sorry, Mr. Urich, but-"

"Foggy." Matt looked toward the reporter's voice.

Without a word, Urich punched _play_.

"-Can't you pick up-"

Matt closed his eyes, listening behind the words. Shut out the daylight sounds filtering into the law office, focused on the raw, night-worn voice, the beat of air about the phone receiver, a whisper of a formal announcement before the whistle cut through.

Soft susurration. Like rough silk over cloth, or fine leather on leather. A thump of flesh on glass; as if the woman had bumped her knee against the wall of the phone booth. Yet in the wrong place for a knee.

As the sound echoing off her frame was wrong, painting the shadowy image of bones heavier than human, shapely muscle cloaked in a rustle of skin.

Faded words under the whistle, formal with just a hint of the South. _"-Last trips to Hartsfield and Peachtree Street-"_

_Click._

"She was in a train station," Matt said softly. "Peachtree Street. Atlanta?" He tilted a sightless glance Urich's way. "And she's a gargoyle."

The reporter blew out a slow breath. "Damn."

"She's a - you-" Foggy shook his head, jabbed an accusing finger at Urich. "So what do you expect us to do about this?"

_Good question_ , Matt thought warily. The reporter knew better than to think a pair of small-time lawyers could be any help here. _Which means he didn't come here looking for a lawyer._

Urich. Kingpin. Elektra. Father Everett. Of all the people who knew who Daredevil was, why did he suddenly feel Urich was going to be the most trouble?

"Here?" Radar traced Urich's shrug. "Nothing. She's split. Detective Manolis' got a line into the investigation, so there's one honest cop on the case. 'Bout all I can do." Balding skin shifted under felt; Matt pictured the reporter giving him a wry, wary glance. "Devona told me to get out of town. Want to come?"

* * *

  
"So who is she?" Matt's voice was low, almost inaudible over the roar of jet engines. "And why do you think you can find her when the FBI can't?"

"Vivian Cannon," Ben Urich stated; this source, he could rattle off by heart. "24. Grad student, Bio, Columbia. One of the people who got hit the night Demona sent Manhattan berserk; seemed to be coping with the whole gargoyle bit. Mostly by ignoring it. Specializes in raptors - the birds, not the dinosaurs." The reporter peered through amber lenses at his photo of a young, black-haired woman, her gray eyes alight with sardonic patience. "Pretty."

Dark glasses hid Matt Murdock's gaze, but the wry twist in the redheaded lawyer's voice was unmistakable. "I wouldn't know."

_Smart aleck_ , Ben thought. _Well, Nelson warned me. Guess I just didn't realize how much he was still bleeding. Damn it, Elektra... I hope you're not missing on purpose._ "Father Tony Cannon, architect. Few shady deals in his past, nothing prosecutable. Wouldn't have even been suspected if his first wife hadn't been hit in a drive-by."

"First wife."

"Trista. Vivian's mother," Urich nodded. _Good. He's paying attention._ Not that it made Murdock's knuckles any less pale. _Who'd have thought. The Man Without Fear's a white-knuckle flier._ "Word is she was just a bystander, but Cascade PD looked real hard at Cannon. Nothing came of it, year later he marries Sarah Long, year after that Vivian gets a new brother."

"Esmond."

"Pain in the neck teenager, but not a bad kid, from what she told me." Ben shrugged. "Peachtree Street and one A.M. makes that Atlanta's last high-speed train of the night. Hartsfield Atlanta International Airport." Amazing what you could find with a few facts and a quick check of the Internet. "And she's walking around gargoyle. Damn."

"You didn't know she was a gargoyle?" Matt's fingers flexed on the armrest.

"No. I did. Look." The reporter shoved back his cap, knuckled worried brows. "I mean..."

"I've been blind since I was twelve." A glimmer of humor, there and gone like light in water. "I can 'look'."

_Okay, Urich. He's not going to take your head off. Move on._ "Time of that call puts her up and moving in the oh-dark-hundred, day before yesterday. Now, Viv was one of my sources on the whole gargoyle bit, before Demona blew the piece from urban myth to in-your-face reality. But she was a daytime source; you know, somebody on the rooftops, looking for claw marks and bits of rock." He sighed. "And she stayed daytime. Wouldn't even be out after dark. Didn't want to be tempted to change."

"Tempted." Trust an Irish Catholic to load that word with dark suspicion.

"Talked to a couple of people in the 23rd Precinct - off the record," Ben acknowledged. "They say it's hard to fight, 'specially if you hear somebody in trouble. Or get shot at. Captain Chavez is still trying to shake down her people's procedures to deal with it. Police brutality just got _real_ complicated."

The lawyer snorted.

"Go ahead and laugh. Wait 'til you meet one of those guys on a rooftop."

Auburn brows rose. "Now, why would I do that?"

"Funny, Murdock. Very funny. So we had an Atlanta train," Urich went on. "One thing witnesses agree on is that if the wind's right, a gargoyle's got no problems matching speed with a train."

"You think she changed, caught a train out of New York, and headed to Atlanta," Matt said thoughtfully. "Why?"

"Instinct," the reporter said succinctly. "She got shot at. She's scared. She doesn't handle being a gargoyle well on a good day - but if she shifts back to human, she's just as vulnerable as the rest of us. And the first thing a gargoyle heads for is home territory."

Eyebrows were all but touching the shock of red hair. "You think she caught a plane to Cascade?" Matt frowned. "So why didn't you go to the police with this?"

"You read her statement," Ben said bluntly. "You see any way Graves could've put a hit on her if somebody in NYPD hadn't leaked it?"

"You brought us a whole folder," Matt objected. "Foggy didn't have time to type it into Braille-"

"You read it," Urich repeated. "I don't know how, but you did. You couldn't have gotten Esmond's name anywhere else." He tilted his head, studying the lawyer. "I checked your medical records. Corneal burns. Some mish-mash of toxins; hospital hasn't seen it before or since. You are utterly, absolutely, one hundred percent blind." _So how do you do that?_

Matt stared ahead. "Justice might have leaked it. Or the FBI, or who knows what. WitSec would have rung a lot of bells." A frown drew down red brows; the lawyer craned his head toward the window, listening.

Ben listened, didn't hear anything. _Like that's any surprise. You spent a week nursing info out of everybody Murdock talks to. They know he's special; just none of them puts it together_ how _special._ "What?"

Matt hesitated. "Nothing."

"It's not nothing. Not if it's got you strangling the chair." Urich glanced at chattering fellow passengers, let his voice drop. "What do you hear?"

Matt let a soft breath sigh out, as if he didn't expect to be believed. "The rivets are creaking. All down the wings."

Ah. That explained the white knuckles. _I was right. Isn't that a poke in the eye._ "Airframe flexes under stress," the _Post_ reporter informed him. "Never flown before?"

"I don't know why I'm flying now."

Definite challenge. Ben tried to handle it with kid gloves. "'Cause Viv needs help. And given how much heat my last piece on the Kingpin kicked up, Devona wants me out of town for a while anyway. Might as well make it a working vacation."

"You could have found someone in Cascade to help you look for her."

Heck with gentle. "And you could've taken a bullet in Hell's Kitchen, any day this week," the reporter bit out, voice low. "Fisk doesn't have to tell anybody who you are, or what you did. All he has to do is say he wants you dead. You want to make it easy for him?"

"It wouldn't be easy." No trace of the lawyer now.

"I know that." Urich rubbed tired eyes. "Look. I've been around. Talking to people." Ever since he'd found out the Daredevil he'd been chasing for years was the last person anyone would expect. _A blind lawyer. Wish I'd seen the look on Fisk's face._

Or maybe not. Wasn't like the Kingpin needed more reasons to knock off one Ben Urich, investigative reporter.

"Have you," Matt said levelly.

"Hey. An Irish assassin does a swan dive onto my car, what do you expect?"

Humor lurked in Matt's voice. "Sounds like you got too close to your story."

"Funny. Matt..." Ben sighed. "Father Everett didn't talk. That much blood on the scene, he didn't have to. You came _that_ close to looking the Grim Reaper in the eye, Matt. You. Need. Rest." _And Daredevil's not going to get it. Not in Hell's Kitchen._

"I'm fine."

Ben looked at him askance. "Don't give me that. I've seen people bleed out." Too many times, covering his beat. "You ought to be in a hospital."

Matt shifted in his seat. "I don't... stay hurt as long as most people."

Urich blinked. _Just when I thought I'd heard it all_. "You serious?"

"Yeah." The lawyer rubbed his jaw. "I don't know why."

"Huh." That explained a lot. Plenty of concussed hoodlums had sworn they'd hit the Devil with more punishment than any man could take. Yet he was still out there, night after night, year after year. _How many years?_ Ben wondered. _How long have you been hunting the guys who killed your father?_

The same people who'd killed Elektra Natchios. Or tried to. From the ear Ben had put to the ground, NYPD SWAT had found her, restarted her heart, kept her alive long enough to get to the hospital. Doctors swore she'd made it through surgery.

And then she'd vanished. Right out of the ICU.

Matt had been tearing the city apart ever since.

"So maybe your muscles are back in one piece," Urich said skeptically. Frankly, he doubted it; the way Murdock had handled his luggage during boarding, he was still favoring his shoulder. "Your heart's a whole 'nother ball of wax."

"Don't go there, Urich." Warning. Definite warning.

"Matt. As a friend-"

"We're not friends."

"Fine. As an interested observer." The reporter drummed his fingers on the armrest. "There's something else out here in Cascade. Somebody I'm going to talk to, while we look for Viv. Somebody you ought to listen to, even if it's just hanging around the corner while I interview the guy." He waited.

Silence stretched between them.

_Right. This is the guy who's built more court cases than I've had parking tickets._ "You're supposed to ask 'who', Matt."

"I'm sure you're going to tell me anyway," the lawyer sighed.

"Blair Sandburg. Anthropology." Urich paused, delivered the _coup de grace_. "Guy who might have been studying enhanced senses."

Matt went still. "Urich."

"You don't have to come."

"Urich, don't."

"You don't have to even be in hearing distance. Whatever that is, for you."

"Urich-"

"Jose Quesada," Ben said deliberately.

"Came to a bad end," Murdock said, just as even. "Or so I heard."

"Yeah. Funny, that." Ben stretched back in his seat as their plane finally slid past the Rockies. "See, I know Daredevil. He's been in and out of more dust-ups than the Apple has bars. Ten at a time, twenty at a time - and nobody got killed. Hurt bad, sometimes, but not killed." He looked his seatmate in the eye. "One guy with a gun in a subway station, and Daredevil's got to hit him so he _can't_ walk away. Kind of makes you wonder, doesn't it?"

Matt's jaw was set. "I guess it would."

"So I went back there, and I listened," the reporter said softly. He'd taken it slow, going from step to step down the stairwell, closing his eyes every few feet to try and sort sound from sound. Finally stood by that fatal pillar... and found himself lost in a wash of train-squeal and faded voices, the clamor bounding and rebounding until it might have come from anywhere. "Never realized how many echoes there are down there."

A shadow of a shrug. "I try not to take the subway."

"Doesn't surprise me." Though before, the reporter would have thought that was just the prudent reaction of anybody with a handicap to being closed in with strangers of possible ill intent. "I don't know how you do what you do. Do you?"

"I handle it."

"Oh yeah. You handle it so well." Urich shook his head, feeling the subtle bank as their plane turned toward the Pacific. Wondering how it felt to Matt; not good, if that convulsive clamp of fingers on seat was any indication. "Your padre's worried about you, your partner's worried about you - far as I can tell, the only guy who's not worried about you is _you_. And that worries me."

Dark glasses hid the sight of Matt's glare, but not the chill feel of it. "I'm not going near a lab."

"Who's talking labs?" Urich shrugged. "I'm going to ask Sandburg how Rainier U. screwed up so bad, he almost got thrown out of academia 'cause somebody got hold of his creative writing and tried to publish it. Without his permission."

"And you think he'll tell you what you want to know." Matt's tone held boundless skepticism.

"Murdock, I know Ph.D.s." Urich grinned. "Problem will be getting him to _stop_ talking... Matt?"

The lawyer swallowed, face pale. "I have to get out of here."

_Not good._ "We're at twenty thousand feet," Ben pointed out. Probably more than that, but over fifteen thousand, who cared? It'd kill you just as dead.

"Too loud." Another swallow. "Scents, too many people... air's shifting, hurts-"

"Easy." Urich held up a barring arm. Good thing Matt had the window seat. They were getting enough odd looks from their fellow passengers without the man bolting for the emergency door. "We'll be on the ground soon. Honest." _Air shifting? What the heck's he - oh, hell. Pressure change?_ The cabin's thin air was just a subtle weight in his ears, not fun, but nothing to worry about.

But for someone who could hear well enough to fight blind...

_Damn. He's not kidding. It's got to hurt_.

"Can we help you, sir?"

_Great. Just great._ Ben gave the flight attendant a polite shrug. "Not unless you can put this thing on the ground any faster." He patted the lawyer's suit sleeve. "Bad flyer."

"Out," Matt whispered, sweating.

"Do you need help, sir?" The lady gave him a professional smile. "Anything?"

"No." Matt's fingers curled around the armrest, bit into plastic. "Please. Go. Away."

"Of course." The attendant bent near Urich's ear. "Does he need medical attention? Our staff is trained to deal with this..."

_Not this, you're not_ , Ben thought. He'd seen panic before. Murdock was hanging on by his fingernails right now. Last thing they needed was a guy with a needle to drive him over the edge. _Go after a trained martial artist with a sedative. Oh yeah, great idea._ "It's okay, I'll look out for him. Thanks."

She smiled, and sauntered away, and Urich didn't believe a minute of it. "Better lock it down quick, Matt," he murmured. "Or Ms. Helpful over there's coming back with a needle full of happy-juice."

Matt stiffened. "Bad idea. Hospital - can't-"

Right. That was the _other_ weird bit in Matt's medical files. The pediatric ward had found out the hard way that their twelve-year-old patient didn't always respond to drugs the way he should. No reason to think that had changed. _And the day just keeps getting better_. "Can you think about something else? Anything else?"

"Trying." Slowly, Matt pried his left hand off plastic. Reached for his throat, pulling out a thin strand of silver.

_Braille?_ Ben thought, watching Matt's finger trace the back of the charm. _Who'd - get some sense, Urich. It's Greek. You know damn well who._ The reporter glanced forward, where the attendant was still murmuring with a few of her friends. _Can't hear it, but it sure doesn't look good. Okay, think. Matt's ears hurt, so... he's trying to think about something that's not what he hears. Anything you can do about that?_

Maybe. "Help if I lean on you?"

"What...?"

Urich shrugged, reached up to wrap a hand over the taller man's shoulder. _Good thing nobody knows us here._ "Am I gonna have to carry you off this plane? 'Cause I'm telling you now, I _know_ you're heavier than you look."

"Dense bones. Runs in the family." A little color filtered back into Matt's face. "That... helps."

_Don't let go_ , Ben heard in that silent look. _No problem, Murdock._ "So. You got any plans for when we hit Cascade?"

An auburn brow inched up. "Get off the plane."

"Funny, Matt. Real funny." Not that his plan was much better. He had maps, a hunch, and a good working knowledge of what the mob would be doing to find Vivian. And a gruesome surety of what would happen if they didn't find her first.

_Viv, kid, where are you?_

* * *

  
Special Agent Frank Mulroney stalked up to the blue-and-white pickup's passenger window, dark gaze hooded and wary. His gray suit was neat, his shoes a polished gleam of black leather in Cascade's thin sunlight. Only a slight loosening of his tie hinted how long the day had already been. "No offense, Detectives, but it doesn't take three of us to chase a long shot."

"It's not that long a shot." From the passenger seat Blair Sandburg peered at the Cannons' house, sweeping two stories of quiet elegance visually, roof to basement. "People under stress tend to head for the familiar. It's an instinctive response; you see it in everything from people to octopuses. Home territory equals places and people you know equals already-learned coping skills, which means less stress. I've been pulling together sources on it for Si- Captain Banks. He thinks it might make a good seminar, especially for Patrol; how to find your suspects when they're reacting, not thinking..."

Detective Jim Ellison watched Mulroney's eyes glaze as his unconventional partner gave the place a very conventional cop once-over, and hid a grin. _That's right, Chief. Always check before you go in._ "Still. It is a long way from New York to Cascade."

"Especially with people shooting at you." Curls slid over the anthropologist's plaid shirt as he scanned his notes, a soothing rustle to a sentinel's ears. "Why don't you just ask the Cannons if you can tap their phone?"

Mulroney smiled. It didn't touch his eyes. "One, we'd like this kept quiet. Two, Tony Cannon may not be dirty, but we all know he designs buildings for people who are. He'd never sit still for a phone tap. Daughter or no daughter."

_Uh-huh. Sure_ , Jim thought darkly. _And I'm taking up skydiving_. Couple that with the information Mulroney's Organized Crime Task Force wasn't passing on from New York... not good. Not good at all.

"Great guy." Blair turned toward his partner as the agent headed up the Cannons' front walk. Let his lips form a near-voiceless whisper. "You think he's trying to throw us off?"

"No," Jim said reluctantly, kneading the steering wheel. "Mulroney's nervous, but then, he's talking to us. Any dirty agent would be."

" _Alleged_ dirty agent," Blair pointed out.

"Blair, the man knows his informants are out there committing crimes."

"Somebody on the task force has to know the bikers are killing, yeah. It might not be him." Blair waved empty hands. "Either way, we still have to prove it." He unbuckled his seatbelt, touched his backpack in a casual check of notes and other gear. "So we just walk up and ask?"

"Safest way. You never know who's picking up on a cell phone." Jim closed the truck door behind him, swept the area casually with his senses as they walked up to the house. He wouldn't listen inside, not until they were invited in, but outside was legal.

Okay... nose tickled, bird fluff. Neighbor next door kept some kind of exotic parrot. Someone had just repainted one side of a house down the block a day ago; there was a distinct, less weathered difference in the shade of paint. Rumble of TVs, kids at home on the weekend, blaring radios, Mulroney clearing his throat as he pressed the doorbell...

The screech of a peregrine falcon, circling in search of prey.

The sentinel frowned, scanning the sky for the bird that had to be there. Cascade had a few pairs, nesting on skyscrapers in lieu of cliffs, but this wasn't their home ground. Maybe a wandering adult, trying to claim a new territory?

And why did that thought make him suddenly uneasy?

"Mrs. Cannon?" Give Mulroney some credit, the man had official charm down pat. "Special Agent Frank Mulroney." He handed his badge to the woman in a blue walking-dress, let her examine it as he nodded toward his scruffier companions. "Detectives Sandburg and Ellison. We're looking into some leads in a homicide. May we come in?"

_He did that on purpose_ , Jim thought, hearing the slight hesitation before Mulroney pronounced his partner's name. _Why?_

Possibly a verbal feint to draw their attention away from the agency's flaws. Or it could just be the usual aggravation of the FBI dealing with local cops. He couldn't tell. _Ought to be some way_.

Maybe. If he felt like sitting through the half-dozen tests Blair thought up every time he wanted to refine his control. Why did Blair have to test everything?

"Of course." Classy diamond earrings glinted as Mrs. Cannon nodded. The elegant door shut behind them as she headed for the kitchen, sun falling through stained glass in a mosaic of reds and blues. "I have a pot on... or do you prefer tea? Excuse me, I'd love to help, but I don't know what I might possibly know. Nothing ever happens here."

Sure. Jim hid a bitter smile, looking around luxury his father would have approved. He could think of at least five homicides, twenty robberies, and one attempted poisoning that had happened within twenty blocks of here. And that was just this year. _People never have a clue_.

"It didn't happen here," Mulroney said bluntly. "Mrs. Cannon, we'd like to speak with your daughter. Have you heard from her?"

"My - you mean Vivian?" Neat blonde brows drew together, politely puzzled. "No, of course not. Not since last Friday; she calls every week, New York's not the safest of cities... what's going on?"

Fast heartbeat, Jim noticed. _Lying, or just nervous?_

"I'm afraid there's a limit to what we can divulge..."

"We think Vivian may have seen someone killed," Blair broke in gently. "Now she's missing. Please, help us find her."

Mrs. Cannon sucked in a soft breath, gripped the marble counter. "You think... oh, no. Is she all right? What _happened?_ "

_Fear,_ Jim scented. _Why?_ "Has she called?"

"I - no." A hint of iron surfaced in her genteel voice. "I told you that."

"Has she made contact in any way?"

_"No."_ A spark in carefully made-up eyes. "If she's in trouble, Detective, this is the first I've heard of it."

No change in heartbeat. _Still nervous_ , Jim judged. _Lying? Not lying? Half-lying?_ He couldn't tell.

"And she would have called me," Mrs. Cannon went on, indignant, stalking the kitchen in a clatter of heels. "If she were in that kind of trouble - what are you doing to find her? She's young, she'd never hurt anyone-"

Blair's phone rang. "Ah, excuse me," the anthropologist apologized.

"I'll take it," Jim murmured, slipping the phone out of his partner's hand. He sent a subtle glance over his shoulder. _Calm her down. Please._

Just outside the kitchen, he opened the phone, listening to the soothing murmur of the Sandburg Charm at work. "Sandburg's answering service."

"Ellison!" Simon. And from that growl, the captain of Major Crimes was not in a good mood. "Put your partner on. Now."

Jim dropped his voice. "He's talking to a potential source."

"This is more important. _Now_ , Jim."

More important than a missing witness? Jim stuck his head back around the corner, waved his partner over. Tried to quell the surge of irritation as he caught Mulroney's smug smile. _Yeah, talk to her. Go ahead and enjoy it. We'll still find Miss Cannon first._

"Simon?" Blair asked, taking the phone. "What's wrong?"

"Maybe nothing," Jim overheard. From the grumble, he could picture the tall, dark head of Major Crimes pushing his glasses up. "Look. Has Jim... seen anything lately?"

"What, a vision?" Blair glanced up at the sentinel. "No. Not that I know of."

"Better tell him if you have, Jim," Simon growled. "Or I swear, I'll have you busted back down to Patrol so fast it'll make your head spin."

Jim shrugged. "What's going on?"

"He says no, Simon." Blair scanned the room, heart rate hiking up a notch. "Calm down, before you scare this phone, too. You think there's something wrong?"

"Sandburg, I told you. Sometimes phones just quit. Doesn't have anything to do with me..." Simon sighed. "Look. Maybe I'm just being paranoid. But since that whole mess with Alex, I've had word spread around. Asked people to keep an eye out for... weird things."

Jim exchanged a glance with his partner. Leaned near the receiver. "What kind of weird things?"

* * *

  
_And there he is._ Dorcea pegged Ig's latest mule with her eyes as she walked through the airport lobby, casing for cops. Dirk couldn't give her away; he'd never seen her. She could take as long and safe a look as she liked before she picked up the two-kilo load of heroin he was supposed to leave at the drop site.

And today she wanted to take a very long look. Just in case Ig's target wasn't as dumb as he thought.

Dear Ig didn't know it, but her East Coast contacts were far better than his. And the word they'd passed on said Vivian Cannon had been smart and lucky enough to dodge one set of bullets already.

Anybody that bright wasn't going to just run. She'd be spreading word as fast and far as possible, raising enough of a ruckus that targeting her would miss the point; the cops would already know all she knew.

And she'd call for help.

_Too bad for her, if she did_ , Dorcea thought coldly. Her perch here would let her see any cop or Fed coming down the line; once she had them marked, _they'd_ lead her to Vivian. And snagging a New York target would give Dorcea the leverage she needed to finally take control.

She'd get it in the end, anyway. But why waste time?

_Here comes the New York flight_. The usual crowd of grandmothers, harried businessmen, wailing kids...

And one odd pair; a tall, blind redhead stalking through the crowd, trailing a bald guy in a trench coat in his wake. A good looking guy behind the dark glasses, if you liked the clean-cut type. Which she didn't. Almost cute, if you ignored the tight lines around his mouth. _Looks like someone's got the world's worst hangover,_ Dorcea thought dryly. _Guess even a blind man ties one on before a flight._

Dirk saw him too; the mule was sauntering past the lockers, giving the world a cocky grin at walking through checkpoints one more time. He sidled over toward the red-banded cane, stuck a casual foot in the way-

The redhead stepped over it.

_What?_

Not satisfied, Dirk wove his way into the cane's range, mouthing something Dorcea couldn't hear. Probably foul, given what she knew of mules.

For just a second, Dorcea saw nostrils flare. Not angry, exactly. As if Redhead were... sniffing?

And in one smooth flow, Redhead swept up his cane, locked it across Dirk's throat, spun open a locker in a flash of fingers on combination lock, and shoved the unconscious mule in.

Dorcea blinked. _What the_...

The bald guy was doing his own frantic double-take, glancing back and forth between the locker and the redhead as if he couldn't believe his own eyes. Shot a swift glance around the oblivious crowd-

Dorcea looked away, pretending to be engrossed in a nearby travel poster. Watched from the corner of her eye, as the redhead brushed off his sleeves and casually tapped away.

She'd never seen anybody move that fast. Never.

A dull ring reached her ears; fists thudding against steel as Dirk wormed his way back to the realm of the conscious. "Hey!" A whiny yell, punctuated by thumps. "Hey! Somebody get me the hell out of here!"

_Scratch two kilos_ , Dorcea thought coldly, watching airport security appear to investigate the sudden noise. No way would the mule avoid a search now. _Too bad. But he knows better than to talk... and there's always more where he came from._

No, what worried her was the man who'd jammed Dirk into the locker in the first place.

_Not Feds_ , she thought. _And not cops. No way is Redhead a cop._

Which meant... he was something else. Something strange.

And in Cascade, _strange_ usually tied back to one Detective James Ellison.

_Word is to watch out for Major Crimes. Ellison especially._ Dorcea had come close to seeing that first-hand; only her sources had kept her clear when Banks and his people lowered the boom on a chop-shop two weeks ago. _He's too fast, too good. Sees things he shouldn't. Hears things he couldn't._

Like the click of a lock not even a sighted man should have been able to open cold?

Ellison or not, Redhead was a variable. And she didn't like variables.

Pasting on her most professional smile, Dorcea approached the ticket counters. Flashed her badge. "Special Agent Kant," she informed the startled woman behind the computer. "I need to know who just got off that plane."


	2. Chapter 2

Luggage clutched in a death-grip, Ben Urich whipped his head around to scan the sidewalk behind them. Let out a slow breath. No security. Yet. _Like they'd believe it even if they saw it. I saw it, an' I don't believe it._ "I didn't know you could _do_ that to an airport locker."

Cane clearing the way, Matt headed for the rental agency. "Foggy says I've had too much real estate law."

"Guess he doesn't know what six years in St. Agatha's does to a guy." Even today, that orphanage had a reputation.

"They were good people. They tried."

"Didn't say they weren't." Ben tried to figure out where to walk, ended up stepping out to the edge of the cane's reach. "So how you going to explain how that kid ended up in there?"

"That 'kid' was carrying at least a kilo of heroin." Matt shrugged. "And believe me, he's not going to remember anything."

Ben sighed. "Security cameras?" he said pointedly.

"The only one with a view was off."

The reporter looked at him askance. "And you know that for sure."

"The others smelled warm. It didn't."

So that's why Matt had maneuvered the kid left along the lockers. "You're a menace."

Matt grinned, shoulders finally relaxing now that they were clear of the terminal. "Nice to work with you, too."

* * *

  
Scanning the neat boxes stashed in Vivian Cannon's bedroom, detritus the young woman had left on breaks from New York, Jim frowned. Mulroney had come up with them long enough to give the room a once-over, then gone back downstairs to talk to a sweetly unhelpful Mrs. Cannon. Deliberately unhelpful, Jim was sure of it. _Maybe they threatened her? We should check her phone records. No matter what Tony Cannon wants._

Not that there had to be a call. Organized crime had all kinds of ways to get their message across.

Who knew. Maybe Mulroney could get it out of her. Though Jim doubted it. If Blair's charm couldn't talk a lady out of information, no way would a dirty Fed have a chance. "Not like Simon to jump at shadows."

Glancing under blue-striped pillows, Blair ran a finger along the sheet to check for hidden pockets. Came up empty. "So what makes you think he is this time?"

"Guy ends up stuffed in an airport locker with two Ks of heroin? Probably some rival gang, trying to make a point." So far they'd drawn a blank. There was a young woman's scent here, but it was months old, overlaid by Mrs. Cannon's and a teenage male scent over various packages and under the bed. Her brother, by the scents of junk food and dirty clothes thick in the next bedroom over; no doubt in and out of here ever since his elder sister had left. _At least, if he's anything like Steven_ , Jim thought. _Kid never would stay out of my stuff._

"And they left him with the drugs?" Blair argued. "Expensive point." He stepped back from the bed, dodging the antique wardrobe. "I wonder if I could talk to the flight attendants. Find out if anyone freaked out on one of the incoming planes."

"I never had any problem with planes."

Blair crossed his arms, glanced out the bedroom window. "Jim, when's the last time you were on one with your senses on-line? By yourself?"

_Alex, blonde and laughing, stealing his guide..._ Jim shook the image away. "Say there is another sentinel. What makes you think he's alone?"

Silence.

"Blair?"

The anthropologist's gaze slid past his, full of surface charm. "Just a guess, man. Haven't met one of you with a partner yet. Well, except for Hawke. Maybe. And you have to admit, we didn't exactly meet him very long..."

_Kree-ah-ah-ah..._ Swift, powerful wing-beats, rattling the wind. A whistle of air through stooping feathers, fast as a plummeting plane.

"Jim?"

The sentinel stepped up to the window, scanned the sky. "Thought I heard a falcon."

"You did?" Blair bounced over to sun-warm glass. "Where?"

"Right over-" Jim paused, peering into empty sky. "Must have headed behind a building." He reached out with his hearing, searching for a flutter of feathers.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

An irritated voice, nasal with New York's mean streets. "I am not lost."

"Right." A lighter, quieter tone; still New York, but gentler. Soft taps punctuated it, like a scatter of rain on a tin roof. "That's why we parked two blocks over."

"Hey. It was free parking."

Jim could almost hear the smile around the words. "I think that's a little easier to find on this coast."

"Ha. Like you'd know." Paper rustled, folded. "We take a left here..."

"Watch the curb."

"Wha- ow!" A shoe heel _thwack_ ed on cracked concrete, dragged the man with the map off-balance in a rustle of trench coat and garbled East Coast profanity.

"Told you."

"Grrr...."

"Jim?" His guide gave him a questioning look, quick company to the grounding hand on his arm.

"Pair of New Yorkers down there." The detective's hand hovered near his gun. "We might not be the only ones playing a long shot."

Blair didn't bother to move. "Not unless the mob's hiring blind assassins."

_What?_ Jim blinked, focused on the pair that had just rounded the corner. Tall and not-so-tall; the shorter guy was wrestling with a Cascade city map, felt hat pulled low to shade eyes already hidden behind amber lenses.

But it was his companion that drew the eye; hair an auburn blaze over a light brown suit, shirt and tie neat hues of blue that exuded quiet confidence, gentle face half-shaded by dark glasses.

Necessary glasses, the sentinel realized, watching the redhead's careful body language. Light, easy movement, the sort he'd seen in a dozen masters of the martial arts - but inextricably tied to that rhythmic, tapping cane.

_Left tap as the right foot steps forward. Right tap, left forward. Repeat._ Jim tried not to stare. _Blind. Not just can-barely-see-light-and-dark blind; all the way gone._

Which didn't mean he wasn't an assassin. Cascade had seen weirder. "Help me look closer."

"Okay, focus." Blair's voice dropped. "That suit looks like wool, you should be able to catch a scent..."

Wet wool, all right, Jim registered, tasting the wind. Hint of mint with a bitter bite; the shorter man was trying to quit smoking, from the waft of stale smoke from his trench coat. And... "Leather."

"What?"

"Heavy leather. Like biker's gear; the kind that keeps you from spreading your skin all over asphalt if you lose it going ninety." Jim eyed the redhead. "And there's something... different, in his scent."

"Different how?"

"Don't know." The sentinel took another breath. "Reminds me of L.A."

Blair rolled his eyes, evidently recalling the mess that had been their last seminar in that city of weirdness. "That doesn't exactly narrow it down."

Down on the Cannons' porch, Mulroney's breath caught. "Oh, hell," he muttered. Headed down the walk at an indecent clip, bristling like a wolf spotting a pack rival. "Damn it, New York said they'd handled him..."

Jim glanced at his partner, headed downstairs. The sentinel listened to the FBI agent's wake, trying to piece together Mulroney's behavior into a coherent whole. _Angry_ , Jim noted. _Some kind of threat. But he's not looking for a gun. Why?_

"Urich!" the shady agent growled. "What are _you_ doing here?"

_Urich?_ Coming out the front door, Jim frowned at the shorter man. Sounded vaguely familiar.

"Should I know you?" Urich glanced at the agent, glanced past; taking in the house, the truck, Jim's silent presence.

_Trained observer_ , the detective thought. Funny. Why did he feel like the redhead was watching him just as intently?

"Special Agent Mulroney." A badge flashed. "And New York told you to back off!"

"New York told me to clear out of my office." Urich jammed his map into his coat pocket. "Freedom of the press, Agent. Look into it sometime."

_Oh no_. Behind him Jim heard Mrs. Cannon's heels clicking his way, the swift patter of Sandburg distracting her from the sidewalk confrontation. _Not a reporter._

And not just any reporter. Ben Urich of the New York _Post_ , recently famous for blowing the lid off the Kingpin's organization. _Great. The last thing we need in the middle of investigating Mulroney. A reason for him to lay low._

"Interfering with an investigation-"

"What investigation?" Urich cut in. "You guys told me to stay out of it, I'm out of it. But she's a source on a story I've been working for the past few months. I'm just looking for some deep background. You know, give it some human interest. Editors like that kind of thing." A shift of shoulders, and he moved to step past.

"What story?" Mulroney growled. "If this is a ploy to work on another Kingpin piece, I swear-"

"Gargoyles."

_Lying,_ Jim knew, watching the reporter's stance. He knew a Sandburg-style obfuscation when he saw one.

But Mulroney seemed to buy it. "Gargoyles?" The agent snorted, disgusted. "Some nut puts together computer animation and a couple idiots in rubber suits, and you want to write a story on it?"

"You looked at the top of a New York subway recently?" Urich's grin was crooked. "Rubber claws don't punch holes in steel."

"So some nuts go at it with a crowbar. Gargoyles. Daredevil," Mulroney muttered. "Alligators in the sewers."

"There are no alligators in the sewers," Urich informed him matter-of-factly. "Not in New York. Trust me."

"Whatever." Mulroney swore under his breath. "Ellison! Call me if you find anything. I've got to get back to work."

"Have a good day, agent." Calm words; the blind redhead waited for the agent to stalk around him, then carefully rapped his way toward the door. "Mrs. Cannon? We're friends of Viv's. May we come in?"

* * *

  
"I told you not to call me unless it was important!"

Phone to his ear, Special Agent Frank Mulroney frowned at the raw edge in Kant's voice. _She's been under way too long._ "When you run a civilian? From New York, no less? What's going on, Kay?"

"Good things, Frank. Good things." Glee flickered in the undercover agent's tone, faded into urgent sobriety. "I just need a few more days, Frank. Just a few more."

"To do what? Get yourself arrested? Ellison's too close, Kay. Pull out. We'll nail who we can. What good's a clean sweep if we have to sweep you up?" He'd seen plenty of the detective's work, and he'd heard more. Jim Ellison was Major Crimes' pit-bull; once he grabbed hold of a case, it'd be all but nailed into the ground.

"I can give you Ig."

Calabrese. Head jackal of the bikers' pack; the one they'd never been able to pin so much as a parking ticket on. And, rumors had it, a direct link to Elliot, an up-and-coming shadowy overlord in the Washington federal crime scene. Tempting. Very. The Cascade office had taken some bad hits these past few years. Especially working with Major Crimes.

"Straight-up, conspiracy to commit," Kay coaxed. "No stoolies, no rollovers for reduced sentence. Pure, twenty-to-life justice. Just a few days, Dee, trust me..."

"Kay-"

"Whoops, gotta go. See ya, girlfriend!" _Click._

Mulroney regarded the dead phone. Reluctantly hung up. _I have a bad feeling about this._

But first things first. He had bikers to coddle.

_Just a few more days, you murdering bastards,_ Frank thought. _Then we'll clothesline you all for twenty to life._

* * *

  
"Well, of course Vivian mentioned her conversations with you, Mr. Urich." Wood thumped; cabinets closing in a rich drift of Kona coffee as Sarah Cannon handed around a slosh of filled mugs. "She was quite impressed by the way you looked for reasonable explanations for those... monsters." High-heeled footsteps clattered toward Matt Murdock, hesitated.

_Monsters_. The lawyer gauged heart rate, the quick catch in Sarah's voice. _She's lying._ He gave her a reassuring smile, put his hand on the central table. Traced the grain of polished oak, overlain with the patina of over a century of use. _Phone number, address... no._ Nothing recent, anyway. There were a few scribbles that might be names and numbers, but they were at least a few years old, pressed over by plate scrapes and polishing cloths. "Just put it to my right, thank you."

Ceramic rang on wood, painting a silvery-black shadow of the half-full mug. "You're talking about the gargoyles," Urich said levelly. If you couldn't hear the wary edge to his voice.

"Is that why you're here?" Sarah's heart sped up. "Did they... do something to her? She promised me she wouldn't be out after dark, New York's not safe-" A swift intake of breath. "That is, well - she knew how to deal with Cascade, but it _is_ a big city. It's easy for someone to get... hurt... with monsters around..."

_Oh._ Suddenly that scent of helpless fear made sense. Especially coupled to the heartbeat that skyrocketed every time Sarah's attention turned toward the cops. "It's all right," Matt reassured her. "Vivian wasn't hurt." _And she didn't hurt anyone, either. That's what you're afraid of, isn't it? What she would be afraid of, knowing what she is. Instinct. Protecting yourself at all costs._

A soft breath of relief. "Well. Detectives. If you're through here..." An elegant hand waved toward the door.

"Actually-" Ellison started.

"We should get going," Sandburg cut in, with a smack of flesh on cloth.

_Elbow to the ribs,_ Matt judged. _Subtle. He must have practice._

"But if you've got some time afterward, Mr. Urich, could you give me a call?" Blair laid a scrap of paper on the table. "I've been following your series on urban folklore in the _Post_ , and I'd like to talk about some possible parallel reports in Cascade."

"Light reading in the Anthro department?" A wry laugh lurked in Ben's voice. "Or did they dump it right into the kook section?"

"It was on the fringes a few years ago, " the young anthropologist said defensively. "But we've had some... odd things happen in Cascade, and I'd love to discuss the societal and practical implications of paranormal manifestations on urban life-" His heart rate went up. "How'd you know I was in Anthropology?"

"I keep track of people working the fringes. 'Specially when they get a raw deal from the campus brass." Urich tapped a pen on wood. "You want to talk about that sometime?"

"Ah..."

Ellison cleared his throat.

"Right, we've got a case back at the station, you know how it is... thanks for the coffee!" The front door thumped, covering the sound of retreating footsteps.

Sarah sagged back into her chair. "Thank god."

"I take it they don't know," Ben said dryly, lifting out a notepad in a rustle of paper.

"No, of course not!" Mrs. Cannon shuddered. "No one here knows. Viv wanted it that way. And I agreed with her, of course; do you have any idea what her father would do if he..." Her breath caught. Quivered.

"Hey. Hey," Urich said softly, shoving his chair toward her in a scrape of polished wood. "It's okay. We're going to help. I promise."

Sarah muffled her wail in a fold of smoke-scented shirt, let loose a salty shower of tears. "Oh god... oh, my little girl..."

Matt swallowed back the hot burn of anger, waited out the ringing rain. _Monsters. Tony Cannon would think his own daughter... was a monster. Poor Vivian._

"She hated me," Sarah hiccupped, leaning into the reporter's shoulder. "I thought she always would... I wasn't her mother, I knew that. I tried, but I never thought... And then she called me. When it happened. When her world - went crazy. She didn't call Tony. She didn't call Es. She called me." A shaky gulp; hair rustled as Sarah lifted her head. "And now someone wants to hurt her, and she didn't call me. Why? I don't - understand..."

"She didn't want you to get hurt," Matt said frankly. "When someone shoots at you, you stop thinking. I know. I've been there."

"You?" Sarah wiped off a tear; Matt sensed its silver-on-black fall to the table. "But you're..."

"Blind." Matt gave her a casual shrug. "I wasn't always." No need to mention that he'd never been shot at _before_ he was blind. Daredevil had dodged enough bullets for all the years of his life.

"We think she's hiding out," Ben said uneasily, wringing out his collar. "Long as nobody on this coast knows they're looking for a gargoyle, she's got a cover." The reporter leaned forward. "But I have to be honest with you. She's messing with some heavy hitters, and they got ways of finding out what they want to know. Sooner or later somebody out here's gonna start looking for statues with a sledgehammer."

"No." Sarah shook her head. "No, they couldn't. Not Vivian."

"Could," Urich stated bluntly. "And would. I'm sorry."

Mrs. Cannon rubbed her fingers over her face, brushed back coifed hair. Drew in a sharp breath, and straightened her shoulders. "So what can we do?"

Pen scraped across paper; Ben tore loose the sheet, handed it over. "Our room number. You hear from her, give it to her. I know a couple people; she gets to us, I think we could fix something up. Keep her safe long enough to track down the guys after her."

"You should also start thinking about your own safety. And your son's," Matt added. "Sometimes these people don't just kill you. They kill whole families-"

_"-Whole families,"_ echoed outside.

Ellison's voice.

Matt's head snapped up. He reached out with his hearing, catching the ring of glass and steel around the detective's words, the muffled whisper of cloth over upholstery inside a pickup cab. "Just be careful." Moving his hand over the table, he felt the difference of air moving over wood, then paper and cylindrical plastic. Pounced on the uncapped pen.

_They're listening to us_.

Urich's breath quickened. His hand curled around the pen, scribbled across the notepad.

Matt traced his hand across the page. _How do you know?_

"I don't believe it." Ellison's voice, clear as if the man were standing beside him.

"What?" Blair, puzzled.

"I think they're writing to each other."

"You're serious?" The younger detective drew in a breath. "But that means..."

_Ellison was telling Sandburg what we were saying_ , Matt scratched across paper. _Now he knows we're writing. Suggestions?_

_Outside of GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE?_

"They _bugged_ my _house?_ " Sarah's screech was pure, molten Nevada rage. "Why, those-" She slammed out the front door, stained glass ringing in its leaded frame. A Valkyrie yell howled through the front yard; Sarah Long Cannon abandoning all pretense of gentility to roundly curse the Cascade police department in general and two Major Crimes detectives in particular.

_Ow._ Matt rubbed stinging ears, gritted his teeth. Picked up his cane. Took a step. Regretted it, in a bruising thump of leg against a stool echoes were still blurring. _Ow, ow, ow_...

"C'mon, I saw a back door," Ben murmured, latching onto his free arm. "This the right way to do it? I saw Nelson a few times, but..."

"My hand on your shoulder. Just walk. I'll keep up."

He followed the reporter through a maze of china and antiques, waiting for his ears to stop aching. Shuffle of pile rug, click of deadbolts drawn back, the sun-kissed waft of air across his cheek-

A ring of wind through wood and wire. _Privacy fence_ , Matt judged the shadowy images painted on his radar. _Inside chain link._

"Dead end," Urich grumbled.

"This? You've got to be kidding." Matt tapped up to the fence, dropped to one knee. "Come on."

"But - you - ah, never mind." Urich stepped into his grip, launched upward with a gasp. "Give handicaps a bad rep..."

"I want your supervisor's name! Now!"

Poised atop the wall, Matt shook his head. Dropped lightly to the turf, casually brushing bits of grass off his knee. "Those two," the lawyer said dryly, "Are in deep, deep trouble."

* * *

  
_I'm going to kill them_ , Captain Simon Banks thought, glaring at his phone. _Two in the chest, one in the head. Shovel in the trunk. No one would find the bodies._

So much for pleasant fantasies. "Ellison. Sandburg." The captain's voice rose, rattling the glass of his office door. "You want to tell me what the _hell_ you thought you were doing?"

"Well, by that time we knew Mrs. Cannon wasn't going to talk to us-" Blair started.

"Ellison," Simon growled at the senior detective in the pair. _And the one with the least common sense, I swear._ "You're the one who doesn't want people to know about the Sentinel thing. You're the one who listened in on a _private_ conversation anyway." Which was illegal, and Jim damn well knew it. "And you're the one who doesn't have any bugging equipment to explain _how_ you listened in there."

"Sorry, sir," Jim ground out. "But-"

"No. No buts," Simon cut in. "You got lucky this time. Mrs. Cannon hasn't gone to the press. Yet. We _both_ know why."

He heard a whispered "Oops," from Blair, a stiff silence from Jim.

_Good,_ Simon thought mercilessly. If it'd been Daryl in this kind of danger, and some detective he didn't know from Adam had pulled this kind of stunt - cop or no cop, he'd have grounds for assault. "So. You want to tell me how you got caught?"

More silence.

Simon raised a brow. "Sometime today, people."

"Can't be," Jim bit out.

"It could," Blair objected.

"Would've seen."

"Maybe not. Not if he just had one enhanced sense." Simon heard a faint rustle, pictured Blair pulling his fingers through curls. "I've brought a few people by the station. One sense, two, even three. They don't set off the visions."

_Enhanced senses? Oh no._ "Urich?" Simon asked, disbelieving. Though it would explain how the man got scoops no one else could. _Just what I don't need. A reporter with Jim's ears._

"No," Jim growled. "Murdock."

_Oh, you've got to be kidding._ "The lawyer," Simon reminded him. "The _blind_ lawyer?"

"He said he was blind," Jim bit out. "Could be faking it."

"I don't think he is," Blair objected. "Would you use a cane if you didn't have to?"

"If I were undercover-"

Simon resisted the urge to bury his head in his hands. _Why? Why can't things_ ever _be simple with you two?_ "And did the two of you stop to think about why a guy who may or may not be blind would be _writing_ a conversation?"

Strained silence. Blair cleared his throat. "Um..."

_Two bullets. Just two bullets and a load of concrete. That's all I ask._ "Go. Interview Esmond Cannon. Find out what he knows. _Carefully_."

"Sure, Simon."

"Yes, sir-"

"Don't you dare hang up, Ellison!" _Breathe,_ Simon told himself. Trying to ignore the silver-white spark he thought he'd seen out of the corner of his eye. This was a new phone. It was not going to die on him. Certainly not because he'd gotten mad at it. _In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Repeat._ "I said _carefully_. Which means if you see Urich and Murdock, if you _hear_ Urich and Murdock, if you in any way, shape, or form suspect either of them might be within _ten blocks_ of where you are - you stop! And call for backup! Am I clear?"

"Ah... yeah," Blair said reluctantly. "But they seemed okay, Simon. At least until Mrs. Cannon went berserk..."

"We should find them," Jim started.

"Oh, no you don't," Simon said swiftly. "If you two don't remember Alex, I do. And I am _not_ taking the chance on another officer drowning-"

A rap on his door. "Simon?" Inspector Megan Connor opened the office door, waved a sheet of notes. "I've-"

Simon held up a hand. _Wait_ , he mouthed. "You two find Miss Cannon. And make sure Mulroney _doesn't_ find her. You leave Urich and Murdock to me. Clear?"

"Okay..."

"Yes, sir."

Simon hung up. Sighed. "They're not going to listen."

"That could be bad," the Australian redhead stated, tapping her page. "I checked the flight times? Our two guests from New York would have been in the terminal just about the time Mr. Dirk Newman had his unfortunate encounter with the locker."

"Along with a couple hundred other people," Simon muttered, tapping fingers on his desk. Maybe Jim was right. Maybe he was just jumping at shadows.

"None of whom made as lasting an impression on the staff," Megan said wryly, scanning her notes. "Apparently our Mr. Murdock became quite panicky mid-flight. One of the ladies thought they'd have to sedate him. Would have, indeed, if his seatmate hadn't calmed him down; he was eyeing the door that badly."

Simon stood, strode out into the bullpen. Nodded to Joel Taggert, who was scratching out notes as he tucked the phone in his ear. Henri and Rafe were out downtown, chasing down a few of the chop-shop leads; who knew if they'd get anywhere. "What else?" Connor wouldn't look this grim if it were just a case of a flight-phobic passenger and suspicious timing.

"Okay. Thanks, Morgan." Joel hung up. "Matthew Michael Murdock," the detective read off. "Of Nelson and Murdock, attorneys at law. No wants, no warrants, fingerprints on file with the NYPD due to his work in criminal defense cases. Catholic; born and raised in Manhattan, specifically Clinton. Blinded at twelve; some kind of industrial accident, real bad. Father murdered a few months later. A mob hit. No suspects." Joel grimaced. "Kid was the first to find the body."

"Rotten luck," Megan murmured.

"Seems to have coped; honors from Columbia. Known as 'the blind lawyer of Hell's Kitchen'." Joel leaned forward, all hint of humor wiped away. "Seriously, Simon. Morgan says this guy's got a reputation. He only takes innocent clients."

"He's a lawyer," Simon objected.

"And he walks in to talk with a client, asks if the guy's guilty, and says _on the spot_ whether or not he's going to take the case," Joel pointed out. "Morgan says it's gotten to the point that when cops hear Murdock's on defense, they start digging all over again. 'Cause if they don't close the holes in their case, he will. He finds evidence they missed. Tracks down witnesses nobody knew were there. And he _knows_ when people are lying to him."

A litany that was all too familiar. "Aspirin," Simon groaned.

"Before or after we speak with our visitors?" Megan's eyes danced.

The headache retreated, pushed back by the prospect of action. "You found them?"

"Not yet, no. But our Blair is not the only one who studies Sentinels." With a magician's flourish, the Australian produced a phone book. "There are a limited number of quiet hotels in Cascade."

* * *

  
"Let me see if I have this straight," Jack Kelso said warily, leaning back in his wheelchair as he studied his latest pair of odd guests. _I've got to start posting weirder office hours. People keep finding me._ "You want to shred Sandburg's first dissertation committee, the Anthro department in general, and Chancellor Edwards in particular."

Urich held up a warding hand. "Hey, I didn't say that-"

"Save it." The ex-CIA operative let his glance pass over his second visitor, wondering why that occasional tilt of the lawyer's head seemed so familiar. As if the redhead caught the edge of sounds no one else could hear. _Can't be. On the other hand - Jack, you better than most ought to know handicapped one way doesn't mean the rest of your body's kaput._ "I'm Foreign Affairs, not Anthropology."

"And you co-wrote 'Lilejo: Effects of Folklore on Perceptions of U.S. Intervention in Irian Jaya'," Urich said bluntly. "Not to mention you're referenced half a dozen times in Dr. Sandburg's dissertation on police interactions with urban subcultures."

"Touché." _Man's done his homework._ "So what did Blair say about your proposed article?"

"He didn't get much of a chance to say anything," Murdock interjected smoothly. "His partner seems to be very tightly focused on their criminal cases."

Jack fought back an involuntary grin. _That's the most polite way I've heard Ellison called a self-obsessed jerk in a long time._

"I know how the academic grind goes," Urich took back the thread of conversation. "Between the coursework and the grant paperwork, it's hard enough keeping your head above water. Mess like what happened with Sandburg's folklore research, he's probably had enough trouble just clearing things up with Rainier to get his real dissertation accepted, without trying to go after Edwards' scalp."

Jack wove his fingers together. "So you didn't believe he was a fraud?"

"The kind of people who pull frauds like that, never admit it," the reporter stated flatly. "And if he was pulling something like those cold fusion guys, thought he had a Sentinel for real when he didn't, _he'd_ have published. No." Urich tapped up amber lenses. "Somebody screwed up big time."

"And you plan to get a story out of it." Jack kept his voice level. Noted the ghost of a smile on the redhead's face. _No. No way he could know what I'm thinking._

Then again, a lawyer didn't have to be a Sentinel to read people.

"It's what I do," the reporter acknowledged. And waited.

_Weigh the odds_ , Jack told himself. _Edwards blew it, and everyone knows it. But since that whole Ventriss mess, everyone in Anthro's too scared to say anything. The university's just lying low, hoping the whole thing blows over. And if you leave it to Blair, it_ will _blow over; man doesn't have a vindictive bone in his body._

Unlike Ellison.

_Reality check, Jack. Since when is Detective Jim Ellison going to risk exposing himself as a Sentinel by stirring that whole mess up again? Even if it would help his partner?_

Probably never. "Fear-based responses", no kidding.

_So. Do you want Edwards out, or not?_

Like that was even a question?

There were still good people in the Anthro Department, he knew. People willing to speak up for Blair, and against the university's glory-grubbing chancellor. They just needed someone to start the ball rolling. _Someone with tenure, maybe,_ Jack thought. _Hal Buckner would step in, if he thought it would actually go somewhere. He didn't take the kid on as an advisee at sixteen to see him tromped and forgotten. We'd also need someone with enough cash the university's got to pay attention or risk losing donations. Preferably someone Blair's helped out, so they know he's honest..._

Like, say, Steven Ellison?

_Those two are too quiet_ , the former operative realized. He'd never run into a lawyer willing to sit still rather than talk a mile a minute. Much less an investigative reporter. Urich ought to be poking, prodding, trying to draw him into some sort of commitment. Instead, he was... waiting.

Like Blair would wait, when he knew someone had almost talked themselves into doing what he asked.

_One more check_ , Jack decided. "I don't usually get a chance to ask this, Mr. Murdock; how are the Braille room numbers?"

The lawyer's dark glasses implored the ceiling. "They'd be a lot more useful if they were all at the same height."

"That's what I thought." Perception matched instinct. These two _felt_ solid, the way a good field asset was solid. "Let me tell you about our dear Chancellor..."

* * *

  
"So much for talking to Sandburg," Ben grumbled, fumbling his way out of the hotel bathroom. _Time, time... yeah, okay_. He tucked in a stick of nicotine gum, felt the mint bite of it start to loosen that gnawing tightness in his nerves. "Mess like Kelso laid out, he sees me coming now, he'll bolt." The reporter frowned, leaned on the dresser. Funny; didn't feel quite as stuffy in here as it should. "Nah, there's got to be some way to do it. You think-"

Paper fluttered on his bed. _Out_ , read the short note; flipping on a lamp, Ben recognized Matt's unseeing scrawl. _Back later_.

Urich traced the breeze to an open window, felt along the sill. He didn't see anything in the fading twilight, but... were those boot-scrapes? "Great. Blind, aggravating, and loose in Cascade. You crazy, Murdock?"

Murdock wasn't. But Daredevil just might be. _The Man Without Fear. Why on earth did I think this was a good idea?_

Because Viv had called him, looking for help, and he hadn't been there. Because the bad guys had more eyes, and more money, and they wanted her dead. Because this was a _story_ , damn it; and if the Feds hushed up a hole in WitSec, more than just Vivian's life could be at stake here.

And when it came to finding things hiding out on rooftops, Daredevil was his best shot.

A fist pounded the door; police or mob, by that aggressive weight. "Who's there?" Ben called.

"Detective Taggert," came a friendly man's voice. "Cascade PD."

"Might we talk to you for a few minutes?" an Australian woman added.

Ben peered out the peephole, eyed the badge and its dark, hefty holder. Both looked legit. _And last I heard, Kingpin didn't have an in with Australia_ , he thought, eyeing Taggert's freckled partner. _One way to find out._ He opened the door. "Yeah?" Backed up involuntarily. _Sheesh. That guy could give Kingpin's bodyguards a run for their money._ "Hello."

The tall dark guy in gold-rimmed glasses came in behind the detectives, gave him a polite smile. "Captain Banks, Major Crimes," he rumbled. "Detective Joel Taggert, Inspector Megan Connor."

"We'd like to talk to your partner, Mr. Urich," Megan put in.

"I work solo." Partner? What the heck? "If you want Matt, he's out."

Banks' gaze fixed him. "Where?"

"Hey, I'm not his keeper," Ben shrugged. "Just met the guy a few weeks ago."

"But you're traveling with him." Taggert's tone was level, but his body language screamed _cop with suspect in sight_.

"Mutual vacation," Ben said, carefully casual. _What the hell do they think I did?_ Outside of walk away from a certain not-quite-empty airport locker. "That a crime?"

"I don't have time to play around here, Urich. You're not on vacation. You're not out of the Cannon case. In fact, you're so deep in, you'd better have a snorkel." Banks took a long step forward. "I have reason to believe you have information on Vivian Cannon's location. Information you're withholding. And that your partner," Banks shook his head, looking over the abandoned luggage on Matt's bed, "Is probably out looking for her."

_Two out of three_ , Urich thought, standing his ground. _They're good._ "I told you. I don't got a partner." What the heck were they on?

"Really?" Megan asked gently. "How long have you been helping Matt with his senses?"

Urich stared at her, gum tucked into a corner of his jaw. "How long have I _what?_ "

Behind the shock, a reporter's mind shook pieces into place. _Sandburg was working with enhanced senses. Sandburg's on the force now, working with Ellison. Who overheard us, half a block away. Which means that diss... wasn't folklore research at all._

What a story!

_No. I wouldn't do that to the kid. Even if his partner is a pain in the neck_.

Banks saw something in his face, bit out a curse. "He's out there with no guide - damn! We've got to call Jim in before somebody gets killed."

"With no what? Hey! Whoa!" Urich scooted between the cops and the door. "What do you mean, killed? Matt wouldn't hurt a fly." Daredevil, though... _Don't think about it._

"Ordinarily, I'm certain you'd be right." Megan gripped his arm in an effective come-along hold, freckles standing out against her sudden pallor. "But this is Jim's territory, not Matt's. If they're in the same area, seeking the same target, and your friend moves to claim Blair-"

"Could get ugly," Taggert said shortly, hustling down the hall. "Real ugly."

" _Claim_ him? You sound like Sandburg's a piece of luggage." Feet moving against his will, Ben jabbed a finger toward Banks, careful not to connect. Last thing he needed was assault on a cop. Even if the inspector had grabbed him first. "Somebody tell me. Now. What the hell's going on?"

"Joel, call Henri and Rafe. Let them know we've got trouble. You." Simon eyed the reporter like a snake sizing up dinner. "Where do we look for a gargoyle?"

* * *

  
"Wow," Blair breathed, watching the downtown scenery as they tracked Esmond Cannon's bus. "Hey, what do you know. Those brown blurs are actually buildings."

"I'm still not letting you drive."

"Might be less frustrating. You know, sticking to the speed limit?"

Fingers clenched on the wheel, Jim growled.

Blair grinned, keeping a casual eye on the bus as it pulled to yet another stop. Grabbed the door handle as his partner started looking for places to park. "He's getting off?"

Jim's smile had a feral edge. "And you'll notice it's not the library."

Meaning the thirteen-year-old had lied to them. Not good. Not good at all. _And there's something even less good_ , the anthropologist realized, catching too-familiar lights in the side mirror. "Ah, Jim?"

"The motorcycles?"

"Yeah. I mean, they haven't been behind us all the time, but..."

"They've been switching off with a black Mustang."

_Really_ not good. "So what do we do?"

"They haven't done anything. Yet." Jim's jaw worked as he watched the teen jump down the bus steps. "We keep tabs on Esmond. We see where he goes. If he's smart, he's not going to see his sister. But he might be hitting a drop-site they both know."

Blair glanced at the sentinel. "But you don't think he's that smart."

Jim shrugged, pulling over. "Last I heard, they didn't teach Escape and Evasion in junior high."

_Too bad_ , Blair thought, getting out. _I sure could've used it._ "Jim?"

Halfway into the shadows near the office building, the detective had frozen. "I don't believe it."

"What?" Hustling into cover, Blair followed his gaze. Skyline, a few stray birds in the twilight, maybe a scrap of paper fluttering across rooftops. "I don't see anything."

"Right, red fades out for you..." Jim blinked, eyes dilating. "There's a guy, running across the roofs. About five blocks from here. In a red leather suit."

"Say what?"

"With horns."

Blair stared at his partner. "Are you kidding?"

Jim started; as if he could stop something almost a mile away. "No - don't-" Sucked in a breath. "I don't believe it. He must have a grappling hook, or something... Blair, he just jumped off a building. And he's not falling."

_Great. We have a nut in a costume running around Cascade._ As if the city weren't weird enough. "Esmond's heading inside."

Jim followed his gaze, shook his head. Nodded, ever so slightly, toward the motorcycles pulling into the alleys behind the building. "If they're going to try something, it'll be down here."

"And you want to keep an eye on the guy with horns," Blair murmured.

"You bet," the detective said matter-of-factly. "There's something strange about the way he moves."

"Strange as in...?" Blair prompted.

"I don't know. Something about him's not right. Too fast. Too smooth." The sentinel hesitated. "Blair, this guy just jumped up fifteen feet. Not climbed. Not kung fu, bouncing off the walls. Jumped _up_." Jim started to reach for his gun, stopped. " _Nobody_ can do that."

* * *

  
_Swing. Aim. Release._

Concrete and steel hurtled by, silver-on-black shadows in his senses. Daredevil fell through the wind, curling at the last moment to land on a narrow ledge, a hundred feet above the street.

_I love this_.

His grapnel whipped back to his grip, cutting silver across the Cascade night. Daredevil tasted the wind as he ran, felt the texture of it; cooler, wetter; horns and sirens rising and falling in rhythms alien to Hell's Kitchen. Roofs felt strange under his boots; space left open and unused to the sky, without the familiar scents of lived spaces and odd bits of greenery he would have met on Manhattan rooftops. New Yorkers lived _up_ as well as across, high places much-needed refuges from the hazards of the street. Make this run at home, and he'd have dodged half a dozen parties, fights, or who knew what.

_Too quiet up here_.

Just as well. His shoulder still gave a twinge, now and again; muscles echoing that last, angry struggle to survive-

And he had to stop and perch among the air conditioning units, fighting back the ache in his heart.

Elektra.

He had to believe she was alive. Had to. No one would go to that much trouble to make a dead woman disappear.

_Kingpin might_.

To torment the man who'd laid him open to the cops? Absolutely. But Kingpin would never have left that charm on the water tower. Would never have even known it was there.

_So think_ , Daredevil told himself, taking half a second to judge echoes for distance before he flung himself across yet another chasm of open space. _Natchios was in business with the Kingpin. You know that. So if the Feds believe Elektra has information on her father's businesses, information they can use to take apart the organization... WitSec doesn't just take criminals._

Which meant she might be safe. Just out of reach.

_But if there's a leak in Justice, no one's safe_.

There was the building he sought; one of several in Cascade that Ben said had been built from Tony Cannon's designs. One that had a roof like other gargoyle 'perches' the reporter had run across; an east-facing exposure out of sight of most buildings, over five stories off the ground. A leap, and a run, and-

Leather-rustle. A scent of bricks and sweaty, feathery hair. A click of talons on stone.

Daredevil halted, poised on the roof edge. Caught the fainter footsteps of a young teen on stairs inside, heading down and using words generally not heard in polite society.

"Oh, Es... Sarah's going to wash your mouth out with soap." Her voice was quiet, resigned; carrying that same odd timbre he'd heard on Ben's tape. The low, not quite human resonance he'd first heard in Hudson's words.

_Gargoyle_.

Deliberately, the vigilante holstered his billy-club. _Sounds like you found her. Now what?_

He stepped down onto the roof, following the steady heartbeat. Stressed, but not panicky; evidently she hadn't heard him land.

Not surprising. Most people didn't. "Miss Cannon?"

Jolt of a heart; wings spread with a _crack_ of wind. "Stay away from me." Viv's voice was shaky; radar showed claws arched against the night. "Whoever you are, whatever you are - just stay back! I mean it!"

He didn't move. The gargoyle's breath was quick, almost hyperventilating. The air carried scents of fear, panic, a simmering, bubbling rage.

Daredevil knew that rage. He'd tasted it himself. Rode it, and come out the other side, sick at heart at what he'd done. _One wrong move, and she'll go for your throat._ "It's all right. Ben got your message."

"Ben?" Faint tremor in her voice. Echoes eased around the claws, showed talons relaxing with sudden hope. "Who are you?"

"Daredevil."

* * *

  
Back against her black Mustang, Dorcea blinked. Rubbed her eyes. _What the hell?_

Hell, indeed. The shadows on the roof above might well have come from those grim depths; horned, lithe, a wide sweep of wings over feminine curves. A limber tail swished, rousing ancient fears of serpents with every twitch.

"Guess following little bro paid off," Curly chuckled behind her. Blew softly on his rifle sight, polishing it clean. "Way better than tracking any _reporter_ around town."

_When I'm in charge, you'll eat those words_ , Dorcea thought, hot smile covering cool anger. Ig hadn't wanted to hear about weird redheads, New York or otherwise. If it wasn't a cop or a Fed, it wasn't a problem.

_So speaks a man who's never faced down an internal investigation_. Urich would have to die. She knew his type. He'd never come out to Cascade for just a source. No; he was after a _story_.

If Urich was here, he'd already started digging, and he had pieces her local and NYC confederates lacked. Enough pieces to make her pleasant life... very unpleasant indeed.

_So Urich dies. But the gargoyle goes first_.

Chain clinked, wrapping around a meaty fist. "But who's the other guy?" Curly's second, Roaster wondered. "I mean, is he... one of _them?_ "

"Doesn't matter. Gargoyle bleeds just like anything else." Curly raised his rifle. Glanced her way.

Dorcea nodded. "Do it."

* * *

  
_Click._

Nothing sounds like a chambering round. Nothing in the world.

Daredevil didn't think, just moved; dropping and spinning on one gloved hand, using the full weight of his body to strike behind the gargoyle's spiked knees. Muscles buckled, sent Vivian squawking to the roof.

A cry that turned to a scream, as the bullet tore through fluttering skin.

"Stay down!" _Wing hit_ , Daredevil thought, tracing the scent of cordite and blood, the rattle of wind through the sudden tear. Felt air turn pierced and deadly, more rounds tracing spiral silver-black trajectories over the rooftop. _She'll live._

"No... not again," Viv moaned. "Not again!"

"Hey, freak!" A sneer from below, shot through with gunfire. "We got your bro!"

_Lie_ , Daredevil knew; unless Esmond had hit the elevator, there was no way he could have gotten down that fast. And nowhere down there was the panicked beat of a teenage heart. "No, they don't-"

With a feral shriek, Viv hurtled off the roof.

* * *

  
_Holy_...

For a heartbeat, Jim froze, gaze fixed on the demon diving out of the sky; black mane flying, golden skin torn and bleeding, eyes ruby flames of pure hate.

A shot, and an amber wing crumpled, sent the creature's massive body crashing atop a black Mustang. Tires blew in a rubbery blast of air; a car alarm started its irritating wail.

_Somehow, I don't think demons have bad aim_.

The thought was there and gone, lost in the controlled panic of a firefight. "Cascade PD!" he yelled in the chaos, catching a glimpse of Sandburg racing into the building just ahead of two of the brighter thugs. _Go, go,_ he willed his partner. _Don't let them get to the kid._

Of course, that left just him to try to keep their witness alive. _Should have had Blair call for backup_ -

And red leather hurtled down, dropping onto a biker like a crimson falcon. Not waiting for the man to fall before it launched into the fray, grapnel breaking into two red halves that struck, and twirled, and struck again.

_Escrima_ , Jim thought, recognizing that deadly flow of paired sticks through air. _Mixed with something else_ -

And a chain smashed against his forearm, and there was no more time to think.

* * *

  
"You're leading us around in circles!" Banks growled.

"Would I do that?" Ben caught the savage look on the captain's face, changed tactics. "Look. All I got is a hunch and some research. We got three buildings that fit the bill, we hit two-"

"And the third would be the charm," Megan said firmly. "Listen."

The reporter hit the back seat window button, heard familiar pops in the night. "Gunfire." _And Matt's probably right in the middle of it... ah, hell._

Not that it mattered to him. He was a reporter. This was a story. Sure, Daredevil helped Hell's Kitchen, but so did a couple thousand cops. You couldn't care about all of them.

_So why's my gut tied in knots?_

Simon glared. "Where there's gunfire, there's Ellison."

"And car wrecks." Megan grinned wryly, as the echoing ache of a car alarm pierced the night. "Don't forget the car wrecks."

Simon snarled.

* * *

  
_Somebody out there's having a worse night than I am_ , Blair thought, hearing a trickle of shrieks and crashes as he ran. _But not by much._

"Excuse me, you can't come in here-"

"Call the cops!" Blair dodged the frowning security guard, heading past the open elevator to the stairwell door. "Shots fired! Esmond, get _down!_ "

For a second, the kid gaped through the door window - then bolted.

_Smart kid._ Blair shoved a tired secretary back into the elevator, hit the button to close the doors, turned-

Stared down the muzzle of a semi-automatic, as the biker's partner faced down the sweating security guard. "Umm... maybe we can talk about this?"

* * *

  
_Kick. And... kick!_ Steel screeched free, the Mustang's crumpled door slamming open under the cover of gunfire.

Blood trickling from half a dozen glass cuts, Dorcea scrambled out of her car. Ducked a flying body, seeing ribs crack as the man hit the alley wall. _So much for Curly._

And so much for hitting her target. The gargoyle was up and moving, if stiffly; currently busy banging Roaster's head off asphalt as Ellison and the weirdo in red demolished the rest of the bikers. Sirens were wailing, uniforms hustling this way, and her gang was down, out, or running.

_Time for plan B_.

High boots clicking on pavement, she bolted.

* * *

  
"...Just think, guys." Hand near the gun he didn't want to use, Blair kept up his desperate patter. Right now he gauged the odds at fifty-fifty if the security guard shot. _Bad odds._ "Right now, a couple firearms charges, you get off easy..."

_Crack! Crack!_

And his Blessed Protector leapt into the lobby, pinning one wounded thug as Blair jumped the other.

Handcuffs clicked. "Esmond?"

"Went back upstairs," Blair gasped, holding down his suspect. Trying not to think about the elbow that had found his ribs. _Ow._ "Ought to be okay. Ah - you mind-"

Jim snagged his cuffs, locked the man into place. "Come on. We've got a vigilante to catch."

* * *

  
_Not. Happening. Again. Not! Happening! Again!_

"That's enough." Hands on her arms; leather, red as blood. Red as the pain in her wings, in her heart... "Vivian! He's down! That's enough!"

"Not enough," she growled. _Shot me, shot at Es, clan-threat, kill_... "Not enough till he's _dead_ -"

"You don't want to do that!" Words, hard and fast as the grip pulling her back. "I know, Vivian, I've _been_ there." Arms caught her struggle, twisted her toward him. "Viv, look at me!"

And the world was nothing but eyes. Red eyes, glowing pits in that leather cowl, reflecting the crimson rage in her own...

_No._ She dropped her enemy, her... prey. The man's greasy head sagged to the street, bloody hands spread and helpless. _No._

"Freeze!" An unfamiliar voice, loud and threatening as the dark detective aiming Daredevil's way. "Cascade PD!"

"You think he cares?" Ben Urich strode through the wreck of thugs, stood between her savior and the threatening bullet. "Vivian? You okay, kid?"

"I'm not a monster," Viv whispered. Looking at talons drenched in... god, she didn't want to think about it. Concentrated; shoved at savage instinct, torn wings shrinking into her bloody back. Felt the chill of pavement on bare feet, and shivered. "I'm not a monster..."

"Shh, kiddo. It's going to be all right." Urich wrapped a trench-coated arm around her, ignoring the blood. Brushed back black hair from a human brow, no longer bearing amber knobs of horn. "We got you. It's going to be all right."

Red movement caught her eye; she saw the dark cop's eyes narrow. "I said _freeze_ -"

"Simon!"

And Daredevil was up and gone, vanished in the night.

"Damn it, Sandburg-"

"Don't worry, Simon." A tall, tan cop with a retreating hairline eyed Urich, even as his curly-haired partner blocked Esmond's view of the alley. "He didn't go far."


	3. Chapter 3

"You touch me again, I'm filing battery charges!"

"Okay. Okay!" Blair backed off from the angry reporter, retreating toward the loft kitchen and the unimpressed solidity of his partner. Simon had a hand on the living room table, ready to move toward anyone that looked like starting trouble. "Chill, all right?"

Inwardly the guide was scrabbling for balance, trying not to stare at the ghostly gray fox wrapped around Ben Urich's feet like a drift of Manhattan fog. Slit eyes amber as the reporter's glasses glared at him over bared teeth. _Great. Not just a spirit guide, but a ticked-off_ New York _spirit guide._

"Sandy?" Megan, tip-toeing down the stairs from Jim's bedroom; now a hopefully quiet oasis of white noise generators for their exhausted witness.

"Viv okay?" Ben jabbed in first.

"Out as your proverbial light," the Australian nodded, rounding the table. "As soon as I assured her Joel would watch out for Esmond. I suggested a hospital; she refused. Forcefully. She seems certain 'they' will find her if she's within public walls, and I'm not so sure she's mistaken. That is one very frightened young woman." She arched an inquisitive brow toward Simon.

"Looks like you were on the money, Connor," Simon sighed. "What I don't get is why the two of you didn't have some warning."

"I don't know," Jim growled. "But..."

"But?" _Easy_ , Blair told himself silently. _Could be something simple. Could be something not really important._ "But what?"

"Just before the fight... I thought I heard a falcon."

"At night?" Blair kept a tight rein on his own temper. "Jim, falcons don't fly at night."

"Falcons? Warning? Guides?" Ben's gaze cased the room in quick flicks, weighing the odds of getting to the hall door versus the three-story drop from the balcony. "Are you all nuts?"

"It's a long story." Blair rubbed at the beginnings of a headache. "What do you know about Sentinels?"

"Bunch of aboriginal legends," Urich said warily. "People with enhanced senses. Taste one drop of poison in a gallon of wine, track prints weeks old. Feel a pea under a dozen goose-down mattresses, probably. You were researching the folklore, before some idiots over at Rainier got hold of part of your notes and published 'em out of context. Made it sound like Ellison was the guy you'd been looking for, nearly got you both killed. Not to mention, nearly got you blasted out of academia before the whole fiasco got shoved under the rug. Big mess."

_Guy does his research_ , Blair realized. _Maybe this won't be so hard._ "People like Matt."

"Say what?" Urich crossed his arms, looked at him askance. "Case you hadn't noticed, Matt's blind."

"Nice try." Jim's smile was feral as he looked at his guide. "He knows."

"All I know is, you guys are seriously ticking me off," Ben groused. "And if you got things under control here, I got a hotel bed calling my name-"

"Sit down," Simon said flatly. Pointed toward the table when the reporter's eyes narrowed. "Look, Urich. I don't care what you think or don't think. Hell, half the time I wish I didn't believe this stuff. But right now your partner's a danger to himself and my officers. So sit down and _listen_."

Ben glanced at them all, carefully dragged a chair away from the table to sit within an easy lunge of the hall door. "I told you. Matt's not my partner."

Megan snagged her own seat, folded graceful hands on the table. "But you did help him on the plane."

"So he was a little freaked," Ben shrugged. "Happens when you've never been on a plane before. What's that got to do with Sentinels?"

"Historically, every Sentinel had a guide," Blair said carefully. Looking at the reporter out of the corner of his eye, focusing past the angry fox to the link he knew had to be there. "Someone to look after him when he was using his senses. Someone to help him focus, keep him grounded, help him look after the tribe. And the other warriors who fought with the Sentinel." _Come on, come on, it's got to be-_

There. A shimmer of rainbow, spider-web in the first light of dawn. Thin, and new, and so fragile he was afraid to breathe. _Oh. Wow._ "You just met him."

"A few weeks ago. Black-tie party, before Kingpin put a hit out on Ambassador Natchios and the whole night went to hell." Ben's gaze was fixed on him. "What the hell are you doing?"

"So you don't know, yet," Blair said, half to himself. _You don't know the hold he's got on you. You don't know you can reach out and_ find _him. You don't know he's... yours._

"Murdock knows. Maybe he doesn't know it yet, but he knows." Jim stayed put with an effort. "His scent's all over you. Gargoyle. Leather. Rooftops. And blood."

"Matt? Mixed up with Viv?" Urich's fingers fanned air; a classic New Yorker's 'talk to the hand'. "What's he on, Banks?"

"L.A., Simon," Jim said flatly. "Murdock's scent's not as strong as Vivian's, and hers isn't as strong as Callista's was. But it's there." The detective stared down at the smaller man. "No wonder the rumors say Daredevil's not human."

"Daredevil?" Simon looked at them aghast. "Murdock?"

"You're nuts, Ellison." Ben didn't flinch. "You saw the guy fight. You think a blind lawyer could do that?"

"Doesn't make sense. I know." The sentinel's voice was dangerously even. "But your friend can hear people lie. You think I can't?"

"Gentlemen. Please." Megan's smile was strained. "We really don't need to be arguing about this. Mr. Urich, if you're Matt's guide, he'll be here soon enough. If not..."

"Then you guys might as well put on the coffee, 'cause you're gonna be up all night." Urich grinned and leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head, the picture of East Coast smug. "No way Matt even knows where I am."

* * *

  
"So... you're no' an ex-girlfriend, no?"

Tired, sore, and nauseous from trying to follow a hint of White Diamond through an overwhelming stink of fish, Matt leaned into the cab's turn onto Prospect Avenue. Sometimes he envied ordinary people their lack of sensitivity; this far from the docks, the cabbie probably didn't notice anything beyond a hint of salt and seaweed. _But she headed right for it. After she couldn't lose me through the traffic. I don't like it_. "Do I look like an ex-girlfriend?"

"Just asking, mon," came the swift, Jamaican-flavored reply. "You can never be sure. Especially with the people heading for Prospect. I mean, this street..." The driver's heart rate hitched up a notch. "Ah, no offense, but - you're not on parole, no?"

"No. Why?" Weird. Very weird.

"Cop? FBI? One of those-" Radar painted a waving hand beyond the barrier. "No Such Agencies?"

"No, nothing like that." What on earth had happened in this city? _And I thought New York was strange._

"Course, that's what you'd say," the cabbie's head bobbed. "Right. I got you, mon. Not talking about it, no."

Matt sighed. "I'm an attorney."

"Seriously?" Rampant disbelief rang through the driver's voice.

"Seriously." Matt slipped a business card out of his pocket by touch, inserted it into the slot in the barrier.

"Mon." The cabbie pulled to the curb, shaking his head. "Ellison is going to flip." Bills crinkled as he took his fare; a ten in folded in half on top of dog-eared ones. "What's up with this, mon?"

"Just a habit." _I can tell you and your date had hot dogs, peanut butter cups, and a French kiss for lunch, but I can't tell denominations apart unless I feel the ink. Life is weird._ Cane in hand, Matt closed the door, shutting out the driver's confused mutter as the cab pulled away. The conversation three floors up was much more interesting...

"She's still out?" The same dark voice that had threatened a bullet not long before, over a clatter of footsteps down loft stairs.

Blair sighed. "Simon. It's all right. She was just... scared." Curls whispered, brushed back by the younger detective's impatient hand.

"Throws bikers all over the alley and _she_ was scared?" Simon blew out a breath. "Joel had better keep an eye on that kid."

Matt listened, sorting heartbeats from that odd, disconcerting fuzz overhead; like a black hole in reality. One, two, three, Ben Urich's...

He started, reaching out for scents of mint, stale cigarettes and damp New York trench coat, a surreptitious scratch of pen on paper. _Ben. Definitely._

Odd. How had he known? It'd taken weeks for him to pick Foggy's heartbeat out of the crowd of others on campus. And they'd been roommates.

Then again, he had been listening intently on the plane, trying to drown the agonizing ache in his ears in that steady rhythm. _Lucky guess,_ Matt decided. _Who else would smell like New York?_

"Windows locked?" Jim asked.

"Yeah," Blair acknowledged. "But try to listen around the white noise generators once in a while."

_White noise generators?_ So that's why Blair's footsteps had appeared on the stairs, fading out of radar's fuzz. _Not good. What do they know?_

"Megan's staying up there to watch her," Blair went on, "But..."

"If she turns into that thing again, Megan might have to shoot her," Jim said bluntly. "She almost killed that man."

"Gargoyle, not _thing_ ," Ben shot back. "And she didn't."

"It wasn't for lack of trying."

"She's been shot, she's been running, she thought they had her brother - what the hell is with you, Ellison?" Ben paced toward the building interior, halted with a faint intake of breath; as if he were being glared at by someone far larger. "Anyway. She's out, at night; she ought to stay out. Captain Chavez says the shifts take a lot out of people. And she ought to know."

"People." Wariness lurked in Ellison's tone. "I guess they can pass for that." A whisper of crossed arms. "Like your lawyer friend does."

"Pass for-? For the love of-" Urich bit out three words Matt recognized from the Kitchen; Eastern European and rude. "First off, where it counts, Viv's as human as you are. Second - I'm telling you, Matt's not a gargoyle."

_What?_ Matt froze on the sidewalk, feeling his own heart race. First Hudson's claim, now this... _No. Not possible. Demona missed me. I_ know _that._

But then, even Hudson hadn't thought he was like Vivian.

"Lie to yourself if you want." A panther's snarl. "You know he's coming for you."

"I told you." Ben didn't flinch. "You got a nice story about Sentinels, and Guides, and all kinds of weird stuff. And none of it fits. Matt came out here as a _favor_. We don't even like each other that much. He's probably back at the hotel right now, trying to figure out where I went. He's sure not following some screwy psychic lifeline to find me."

"Then how is he on my sidewalk?"

_I_ thought _you knew I was here._ "Hate to break this to you, Detective, but you are in the phone book," Matt said wryly, tapping toward the stairs. _Cotton, chemical dyes, silk, formaldehyde... clothing shop. Odd place to live over._

A silence upstairs. "The phone book."

"The little number you dial?" Matt hid a grin. _Some detective._ "For information?"

"The _phone book?_ "

"Jim?" Blair's voice; worried.

Pausing on the second floor landing, Matt listened to Ellison's loft. Sounds of footfalls, tense breathing, scents of stress and worry. _Not good._ Ben didn't sound hurt, but he couldn't hear Vivian at all. And with that cold distrust in Ellison's voice... _We have to get her out of here._ "I don't know what your problem is, Detective, but leave Ben out of it."

"He's part of the problem, Murdock," the detective growled. "And you know it."

"He's here?" Simon's hand patted low, near leather and gunpowder; ankle holster, Matt deduced.

"Oh man," Blair murmured, footsteps nearing the door. "Jim, stay calm, man. I don't think he came to fight." A shift in voice. "Does he feel like he came to fight?"

" _Feel_ like?" Urich repeated, thoroughly exasperated. "How the hell should I know? I told you. We're not _connected._ "

"Oh, man... worse than I thought. You're supposed to help center your sentinel. You feel him. Here, just let me-"

Matt tensed, suddenly on edge. Something wasn't right. Something-

"I said, don't touch me, Sandburg," Ben growled, feet pacing over hardwood. "He's not _mine_."

"Ellison, your only problem is about five-foot-six, medium build, with a short haircut," Matt listed, listening to the echoes inside the detective's lair. "Wore White Diamond perfume, a lot of leather and metal, and no socks. Had safety glass in her hair." He'd heard it fall, scattering crystal points of silver on the sidewalks. "Heavy gun; I'd bet on a 9mm. She ran, called someone named Palo for a pickup at the usual. Whatever that is."

"Caucasian, dark brown hair, brown eyes," Ellison said bluntly. "Black leather pants, vest with silver studs. Tried to trace the car registry; so far, it's come up as a little old lady in Corvallis who had no clue she had a classic Mustang. We've got an APB out. I _thought_ you'd stop her. How'd you lose her?"

"I thought I'd rather stop Vivian." Matt stopped outside the third-floor apartment door, hands braced on his cane. "Your brunette ran toward a traffic accident, circled it twice, hopped on and off a bus, and dodged through a biker bar. I lost her near the cannery. You want to talk, Ellison? Or do you want to let the woman who set up that ambush walk?"

Warily, Simon opened the door.

_Glass-topped table_ , Matt registered, taking in echoes of silicon and steel as he entered the loft. _Hardwood floors. Not too much furniture; light wood and metal. Stairs leading up_...

Up, into that disconcerting black fuzz. _Perfume, gunpowder, rooftops._ Vivian and another woman, whose scent lacked the wild aftertaste of hybrid gargoyle. _Must be Megan._ Jaw set against the irritating white noise, Matt advanced toward the hard resonance of steps.

A grainy echo of muscle stepped into his path. "Where do you think you're going?"

"To see Vivian." Matt kept his tone even, fingers barely touching the table as he passed it. _Glass_ , he confirmed. _Just a few more feet._ And radar degrading with every step, the stairs' solid echoes wavering like water. If he walked up there, he'd truly be walking blind...

"I don't think so." Ellison's heavy hand reached out of sound's static, fell on his shoulder with a dig of fingers into sensitive nerves. "Not until you talk about that woman I _thought_ you were going to stop-"

_Strike!_

Slip under the nerve grip; turn it back on its wielder in a quick pressure of fingers between bones, a leap forward that yanked his opponent off balance and let Daredevil push off the wall vibrating under the stairs, flipping him up and back-

But the detective rolled with the fall, coming up in a dangerous crouch. A growl; his hand darted near the scent of leather and gunpowder.

"Damn it, Jim!" Simon shouted.

"No guns!" Blair yelped in the same breath.

_Got that right._ Blood singing in his ears, Daredevil struck out with his cane; right wrist, shoulder, fingers. Almost smiled as the detective dodged the full force of the blows. _He's good._

A faint echo whispered through static; the quiet ring of cloth pants against glass.

But not good enough.

Daredevil leapt, caught hold of the edge of a hanging industrial light for one wild, creaking instant, swung-

_Crash!_

Shards flew past in a crystal spray; Ellison latched onto his arm, tried to lever him into the steel tangle that had been the table frame. Brushed metal caught his sleeve, threw him off for a critical fraction of a second. Long enough for Ellison to wrestle his cane clear and sink a breath-stealing punch to the ribs.

_No leather_ , Daredevil reminded himself, gasping. _Move!_

Curl and cartwheel upright; ignore flash-fire bites of pain from scattered glass. Dive and roll over the fabric loveseat, evading grasping hands; hear a creak of bearings, and shove the wheeled table into his opponent's path, TV and all.

"Oh, man!" Blair's groan was almost drowned by the second crash. "This is not happening... Ben, do something!"

"Like what?" the reporter shot back. "Pray?"

Blurs thudded into his body; hard, close-combat strikes, meant to take down a fighter once and for all. Daredevil dodged, parried, wove around the taller man in a twist of arms and blocks. Wished for the cane frustrating feet out of reach; the deadly sticks that would tip the balance irrevocably in his favor. _Too good. Need some distance... before we kill each other...._

"Both of you!" Simon's voice; a drift of cigar smoke. _"Stop this now!"_

A white crackle; electric shock, and-

Sound went dark.

* * *

  
_There goes our furniture budget_ , Blair thought inanely, trying to make sense of the carnage spread over his living room. "Did you see...?"

"Some kind of white flash when your captain grabbed them?" Ben picked his way through the glass and wood splinters, took the pulse at Matt's neck. Blew out a relieved breath. "Yeah. I'm going to take a wild guess and say this never happened before?"

"I don't know," Blair said numbly, working his way in to check his own partner, then Simon. _Okay. They're just... out. You can handle this._ "He's been having some problems lately. Computers acting up, phones dying on him... I mean, I thought I saw his aura flaring once or twice, but it could have been just my imagination. I didn't think anything like _this_ would happen..."

"You see auras." No question in the reporter's tone.

"Ah... a little," Blair admitted. "Sometimes." Not nearly often enough, if this was any clue. "It's weird. He looks a little... faded."

"Been working on a story or two in the city tunnels." Urich got his arms under the limp attorney, started levering him up out of the glass. "Couple people down there are supposed to throw things when they get ticked. Some kind of electric shock; melts glass, can take a person down for hours. A few of the witnesses said it wipes the guy who throws 'em out for a while." He picked off a few splinters, blew sharp dust off his fingers. "Stantz over at the Ghostbusters calls 'em levin-bolts; says every once in a while you find people who've got 'em. Though sometimes they don't _know_ they've got 'em 'til they blow their top big-time."

"And Simon thought we were weird," Blair muttered, helping the reporter lift his partner onto the sofa when it was clear Urich was having a hard time moving the man. _Whoa. This guy's heavier than he looks._

"I heard the crash, what-" Megan hustled down the stairs, eyes visibly bugging as she took in the wreckage. "Good Lord!"

"Simon's going to kill me." Blair stepped back, gauged which of the two cops was in more danger from broken glass; reluctantly moved toward his captain rather than his sentinel. "Somehow, I don't know how, he's going to figure out this was my fault. And then he's going to kill me."

The inspector stepped around glass, slipped under Simon's other arm, shaking her head. "What happened?"

"You want my guess..." Undoing a light blue shirt collar, Ben peeled back cotton to expose Matt's scarred shoulder. "I'd say this happened."

Laying Simon on the loveseat, Blair blanched. From that pink scar, someone had tried to put a sharpened steel rod through Murdock's heart. And missed. _Can't be more than a few months old_. "Oh, hell. Hypersensitive touch-"

"And your partner dug in but good." Urich's tone was level, but not friendly.

"Sorry."

"What for? You didn't grab him." The reporter eyed Murdock, then Jim. Swept his gaze over the wreckage. Sighed. "Inspector Connor? I'm gonna ask you for a favor." He held up a room key. "Could you get our stuff? I don't think I'm going anywhere tonight."

"So now I'm a delivery service?" The Australian cocked an eyebrow at him.

"Hey." Urich shrugged. "You want to help Sandburg sweep up this mess before somebody slices their throat, be my guest."

"Oh, no," Megan said wryly, watching Blair start swinging a broom with resigned fury, sweeping up fragments of plastic and metal that had been a TV set. "I couldn't bear to tear myself away from this spectacle of carnage. It's quite fascinating the amount of damage Jim's capable of when he puts his mind to it. Especially when he has such willing accomplices..."

Blair leaned on his broom. "Megan. Please?"

"Nice lady," Ben observed, holding the dustpan steady as the loft door closed behind her. "Doesn't take no flack from nobody. She'd fit in just fine in the Kitchen."

"Hey. No stealing Major Crimes detectives. We need all we've got." Blair shoved in glittering glass. "So now you believe me?"

"Kinda. Maybe. Well..."

Blair opened the storage room under the stairs, dragged out a heavy metal trash can. "So what doesn't fit?"

_Swish. Swish. Rattle rattle_ clang! "Look," Urich said, dusting bits of glass into the trash. "Your research said they're born with the senses, right?"

"Far as I can tell, yeah. Though in a culture which doesn't believe in Sentinels, they seem to end up repressing them until they undergo a prolonged period of isolation, at which point there's apparently a massive sensory eruption-" Blair cut himself off. "Ah. Sorry."

"'S'okay," Urich shrugged. "You should try getting an explanation out of Dr. Spengler sometime." He worked his way around the hall door, clearing fragments toward the main mess. "So you're saying they shut it off 'til they hit a spot where there's nothing else to pay attention to, then they lose it. And that's the problem. Far as I can tell asking around, Matt's always been like this." The reporter stared at shattered circuits, not seeing them. "Not that there's anybody left to ask from before he went blind. Kingpin took care of that."

"That could have been it," the anthropologist said slowly, clearing bits out from under the stove. _Nineteen years? Nineteen years as a Sentinel with no Guide?_ "Kingpin...?"

"Rose left at the scene where Jack Murdock was beaten to death," Ben said matter-of-factly. "Case is still open. Not that anybody thinks it's ever gonna get closed. Not when the only witness was the vic's blind kid, who got there just in time to hear a car pull out." Laying down the tangle of metal table legs, the reporter blew out an angry breath. "No jury's going to buy a car ID'd from just the engine noise."

"Oh, man." For a heartbeat Blair tried to picture what Jim would have been like, had someone slain the father he still cared deeply about, despite all their arguments. _Add the whole territorial component, a threat to your tribe you can't do anything about, can't get the tribe elders to take seriously..._ "So he went vigilante."

Urich took off his glasses, met his gaze eye to troubled eye. "That going to be a problem?"

_Aha._ "I don't know. Is it?"

"I don't know anymore. I just... I don't know." Ben glanced away. "About this Guide thing. I'm just your average guy, Sandburg. Nobody special."

"He came with you," Blair said softly. "He _left his territory_ to come with you. Trust me, he wouldn't do that for just anyone."

Urich shrugged it off. "He came 'cause there might be a leak in WitSec. And Elektra might be there. Which means he's going to patch it come hell or high water."

_Maybe._ "Think they'll be out for a few hours, huh?" Blair patted the couch near Matt's head. "Come on."

"And do what?" Ben asked warily, not moving.

_Easy_ , Blair told himself. _He's already freaked. Don't scare him off._ "Well, I don't know about you, but I'd like to see if we can do something about your friend's sense of touch. Hopefully _before_ we run out of furniture."

* * *

  
Blackness. Noisy, sharp, echoing blackness...

_Hey, kid. Matt? You listening?_

Warm hands, gentle on his arm. Warm heartbeat, steady and strong as a river. Almost enough to drown the roar of a strange city, the sirens and gunshots and screams of pain.

_Work with me here, Murdock._ Patience, tinged with a hint of humor. _Not that you ever make it easy for anybody. Foggy's crystal clear on that._

Foggy? Matt frowned, pushed at sucking darkness. What about his partner?

_Ah, that gotcha. Easy. He's okay. Just listen._ A stroke of fingers down his arm, careful and cautious. _Think about dials, all right? You got four of 'em. One's marked hearing, one's marked touch..._

He could picture them in his head; silvery shadows on black, dotted in Braille like his watch. Hearing, touch, scent, taste; and interwoven with them all, that odd, comforting coalescence of senses he called radar.

_Radar?_ Startled stutter of fingers. _Okaaay... five. Now, you feel the dials? Know where they're set?_

Weird question. Scent and taste were _there_ , touch throbbing high, sound wavering as it always did, radar mostly anchored, but shivering back and forth with sound...

_What d'you mean, they're not supposed to go past ten? Well they_ are, _Sandburg, let's deal with it._

Scents wafted away, fading into a background of mint and harbor air. Taste faded, the burn of blood from a tooth-nicked lip turning to a subtle flavor of copper. Touch-

_'Kay, this one's stuck. Guess that's why you had those damn painkillers in your bag. And believe me, we're gonna talk about that... Easy, Matt. Turn it down one notch at a time. Fifteen, fourteen, thirteen... that's it. Keep going_.

A shocked murmur roared in sore ears. Something _shoved_ at his dial, almost enough to pull him clear of the floating blackness.

_Sandburg!_ That oddly familiar voice, suddenly harsh. _You're the guy who's supposed to know what he's doing. If_ Matt _says it bottoms out at six, I believe him._

Another murmur. Just as painfully loud as the first.

_So none of 'em go down past six. Yeah? So? Your point?_

Ben?

_Whoa, Matt. I got you. Just stay put. Don't think we got all the glass yet_.

Distantly Matt felt himself wince. Hearing hurt...

_Aw, man; this one's all over the place. Up, down - heck, I think it's shimmying. Matt, how on earth do you sleep nights?_

Sometimes he didn't. That's what the sensory deprivation tank was for; to shut out the world those nights he absolutely _had_ to sleep before court.

_And that's you all over. If nothing else works, hit it with a bigger hammer..._ Wry irritation faded into a tentative question. _How's that?_

Peaceful. So quiet. Almost as restful as the night Elektra had stayed, wrapping his tattered soul in the comfort of knowing he was truly loved.

Resting his head against that calming heartbeat, Matt let sleep steal over him.

_Hey, Matt? You want to turn loose of my arm? Sandburg! Stop snickering, damn it!_

* * *

  
"Frank?"

Phone to his ear, Special Agent Frank Mulroney glanced into the controlled chaos of late night-early morning in the Organized Crime Task Force's bullpen. Shut his office door. "Kay. I've been trying to track you down half the night! Where _are_ you? Do you have any idea there's-"

"A want, yeah." Agent Kant's voice had a barely audible quiver; the kind you got staying one step ahead for a few days too many. "Wrong place, wrong time. Things blew. You know how it goes."

"Things blew?" Mulroney shook his head. Granted, undercover work could go south in a hurry, but... " _Attempted homicide_ , Kay. _Suspect._ Enough's enough. Come in."

"Hey, I didn't draw down on anybody. And you didn't see that thing." Humor rang through Dorcea's voice, faded into brittle calm. "I'll be okay, Frank. Just cover for me a little longer."

" _Cover_ for you? Ellison _saw_ you, Kay-"

"And ten to five, he's got your witness wrapped up nice and pretty." The undercover agent's voice was light, almost playful. "And he didn't tell you, did he?"

_Why that grandstanding_ \- Mulroney stopped himself. Took a deliberate breath. This was his agent who was in trouble. What Ellison had or hadn't told him about Vivian Cannon wasn't important. What share of the glory Major Crimes did or didn't get - wasn't important. Not against Dorcea's life. "Kay. I'm telling you, come in."

"Not happening, Frank."

A shiver went down his spine. Something was _wrong_ in that strained voice. "Kay-"

"I'm getting Ig, Frank. You want to help? Meet me."

Writing down the address, Mulroney hesitated. _I should bring in the team_ -

No. Kay was his agent. His responsibility.

_But if she's turned_ -

Kay? Not a chance. She gloried in taking the bad guys down.

Still... he had a witness to protect.

_So call them._ After _you get Kay out of there._

Grabbing his raincoat, Mulroney caught himself midway through an absent sign of the cross. Rolled his eyes, remembering way too many Sunday classes before the Academy, and finished with a shrug. What the heck. It couldn't hurt.

_Be all right, Kay. Please_.

* * *

  
_Somebody turn off that jackhammer._ Simon blinked, winced. _Since when did Ellison put in ultrabrights?_

"...Think he's coming out of it - Simon?" Blair's voice, close and worried; familiar fingers rested against his cheek. "You okay?"

"Coffee. Mug," the captain of Major Crimes gritted, blinking away faint sunlight. Keeping his eyes half-closed as he looked around for the source of the destruction. Sour-faced detective, check; clenched jaw speckled with sticking paper like the aftermath of a punch-drunk barber's shave, balled up in the yellow leather chair around a quilt as if Jim were trying to strangle it in its sleep. And on the couch...

One way-too-agile, hostile attorney, bonelessly sprawled over the cushions, deadly cane placed near to hand. Simon sighed. " _Full_ mug."

He heard a New Yorker hiss under his breath, flicked his gaze toward the kitchen in time to see Urich pick a translucent shard out of his knuckle. "Ellison, with all the times Blair says this place has turned into a war zone," the reporter grumbled, " _Why_ did you two keep a glass table?"

Jim's lips twitched. "I liked it."

Urich rolled his eyes. "Piece of advice? Pyrex."

Simon's eyes narrowed. Naah. Jim couldn't actually be considering that. "Sandburg."

Blair looked down at his captain's growl, yanked his fingers out from under Simon's cheek. "Ah, if it helps, Ben and I think we figured out what happened."

"What?" Besides World War III in the living room. Simon frowned, trying to pin down hazy memories. Jim and Murdock had been gleefully trying to kill each other, he'd wanted to strangle them both - no big surprise, when Sentinel instincts reared their not-so-useful side - and then...

Sparks, and rage, and a sudden chill-

And the warmth of coffee steam, shoved under his nose. "Coffee first," Urich advised. "Then you can freak him out."

"Ben. Sentinels and Guides are natural phenomena. I mean, we see people with better than average senses or people-reading skills all the time. This is just... a little exaggerated."

Urich shot the anthropologist a skeptical look.

"Okay, a lot exaggerated," Blair admitted. "With a lot of variation, and-"

"You can stop playing possum," Jim said evenly. "I heard your breathing change two minutes ago."

Murdock latched onto his cane, sat up in a casual shrug. Patted his shirt pocket for the dark glasses to cover sightless blue eyes. "Didn't want to start another fight. I know how I am before my first cup of coffee."

"I'm... sorry about that." Jim's words were stiff, forcing their way through a tight jaw. "Didn't know you were hurt."

"Not a good idea to grab strangers. No matter how good you are." An auburn brow lifted. "Special Forces?"

"Ranger." Jim's shoulders eased. "Who taught you?"

Matt paused. "He called himself Stick. He was blind."

"Not possible," Ellison said flatly. "I know about blind-fighting. You lose your balance, you lose your focus on where the enemy is... what are you doing?"

Cane balanced across one finger, Matt smiled. "Proving a point." Deliberately he let red-marked metal dip back and forth, never quite sliding off. Flexed his fingers with steadily increasing speed, the cane turning from weaving staff to spinning blur, thrown aloft-

And caught, light as a butterfly snatched from air.

"Touch, Detective," Matt said, not even breathing fast. "It's all the balance you could ever ask for."

Simon whistled. Glanced speculatively at his sentinel detective. "You could do that?"

Jim frowned, speculative. "Not yet."

"Maybe someday," Blair admitted. "I'm not sure. Matt's had a lot more time to practice. And-" he hesitated.

"And?" Jim prompted.

"Matt's not a Sentinel."

"But you said..." Ben glared at the anthropologist in a way that promised serious payback.

"Sentinels have enhanced senses. Which you obviously do," Blair nodded toward the attorney. "Only, along with that hypersensitivity comes a sensitive immune response. You wouldn't believe the lists I've had to come up with... anyway. Ben says you lived through a massive chemical assault."

"The accident," Matt said softly. "I remember."

"Matt?" Ben. Patient and wary as any reporter stalking a story.

"It was a clear day. Blue sky over the Kitchen, something to see. I was running on the docks." The attorney's jaw was set, hidden eyes looking into old pain. "They were moving something illegal, I don't know what. The forklift missed me, but... The last thing I ever saw was a biohazard symbol." Matt gave them an abbreviated shrug. "About a week later I woke up with Manhattan yelling in my ears. I thought I was going crazy."

"Been there," Jim murmured.

"The point is, you woke up," Blair said seriously. "I don't think a Sentinel would have."

Interesting to know, Simon thought. But he was a lot more interested in what Sandburg wasn't saying. "So how did I end up out cold?"

"You threw a levin-bolt," Urich said dryly.

Simon blinked. Made sure his glasses were firmly set. "A what?"

"Ah... a bio-electric charge," Blair said reluctantly. "It's... kind of a manifestation of overexposure to psychokinetic energies."

"Melts glass, fries gadgets, and apparently knocks ticked-off Sentinels out cold," Urich quipped. "Pretty neat. If you can keep from toasting stuff accidentally."

"Another of your articles?" Matt leaned back, unconvinced.

"Columbia. Some poor prof in the English Department finally blew his top at Dean Yeager and flattened his tires. I got witnesses on that one."

Matt stifled a chuckle. "Couldn't happen to a nicer guy."

"So they say." Urich grinned crookedly. "And the dean couldn't even toss him. Genre Lit's never had so many students sign up."

_Overexposure to psychokinetic energy,_ Simon thought. _I knew it. I_ knew _the Sentinel stuff was going to bite me one of these days._ "Sandburg..."

"Told you," Blair sighed.

"Not his fault, Captain." Urich leaned on the couch by Murdock, suddenly serious. "Kind of exposure we're talking about comes from a place, not a person. They didn't get you. Cascade did."

Not fair. He'd moved to Cascade to get _away_ from the weirdness in California. _This is not happening. This is not_ \- Simon halted his train of thought, catching the pair of glances toward the loft overhead. "She's awake?"

Jim nodded. "Joel said they'd call if we had any word on the APB. I checked in with Dispatch. No luck." A panther's grin. "But Henri and Rafe are working on the guys we scraped up off the pavement. Turns out they can tie one bright boy by the name of Johnnie to the chop-shop by his vice-grips. And he knows it-"

The phone rang.

"Ellison and Sandburg," the answering machine's terse message reported in the detective's voice. "Leave it. I'll get back to you."

"Or if you're lucky, I'll get to you first," Blair's voice added.

_Beep._ "Twelfth and Stanford," Mulroney stated. "I'm bringing in a witness in your case, Ellison. We've got to talk." _Click._

"Mulroney-" Jim lunged for the phone, made a fist at the _brr_ ing of an empty line. "He's in trouble."

"All I heard was him in a car," Matt noted.

"That's why he's in trouble," Jim said flatly. "Mulroney's got a thing for using landlines."

"Frank doesn't like the idea of crooks picking his conversations out of thin air," Blair nodded. "He carries a cell phone. He'll pick it up. But he never makes a call from it unless he's got no other choice."

"As in, he doesn't want you to catch his witness before he does," Simon snarled. "What are the odds we'll find the perp shot resisting arrest?"

"I don't know, Simon." Picking up his keys from the basket by the door, Jim frowned. "He sounded... worried. Upset."

"Someone's in trouble, and it's not him," Matt agreed.

The captain growled. "So let's find out who it is."

"Please," their witness' voice groaned down the stairs. "Not without breakfast."

"Second the motion," Urich nodded.

Simon stared up at the tousled young woman in Megan's borrowed bathrobe peeking over the railing, lowered his voice. "She heard that?"

"It's not like you're a block away," Vivian yawned. "What's breakfast?"

"Ah... healthy," Blair said brightly. "How about an algae shake?"

Viv threw a pillow at him.

"You two keep an eye on her," Jim said in an undertone. "We'll be back."

* * *

  
_One of these days, they'll finish cleaning up this site,_ Mulroney thought, picking his way through the leftover rubble of the burned warehouse. _Yeah, right. Probably about the time I make Assistant Director._ "Kay?"

Leather and studs unfolded from behind a chunk of still-standing, charred wall. Thin sun gleamed off the dark metal in her hands, painting gold over the 9mm. "Well, well. Look what the phone dragged in."

_I should have called for backup._ Frank tried to shake off the nervous chill. "Kay, what's going on?" _She's expecting trouble. From where?_ "Why would Calabrese show up here?"

Her smile flickered. Eyes widened slightly, glancing over his shoulder.

_Behind me-_ Mulroney whirled.

Black leather, muzzle-flash - pain!

As lead drilled into him from two sides, Frank knew he'd made his last mistake.


	4. Chapter 4

_I should know better._ Hanging onto the armrest for dear life, Simon tried to brace Blair in the middle of the pickup. _I do know better, damn it._ "Jim, slow down!"

"Gunshots."

"And we've got officers on the way!" Teeth gritted, Simon refused to cringe as they took the corner onto Twelfth at high speed. Held back a shiver as he felt the F-150's wheels rise off the pavement. _More top-heavy than a 250... god, I had to remember that_ now?

"They'll never find Mulroney in time." Blair was pale, staring ahead as if he were the one with enhanced sight. "Something's wrong, Simon. Something we don't know about. Something the uniforms won't know about." Teal eyes pleaded with him. "We have to get there first, Simon. We _have_ to."

_Save me from those eyes._ Simon risked taking a hand off Sandburg long enough to pat down both their vests. Thank god he'd finally bit the bullet and sprung for an extra vest to leave at the loft. He'd been in too many shootouts near Prospect to go there unprepared. "Thought you thought Mulroney was dirty."

"Maybe he is." Jim glared at the road, weaving through traffic like a cabdriver on a bet. "I'm not leaving even a dirty Fed to die here-" Jerking back, he tore the wheel toward the curb.

Glass shattered, the windshield raining bits into Simon's glasses. Blair yelped, dove for the floorboards.

_Shit!_ Simon hugged close to the door, trying to put steel between him and the following bullets as Jim threw the truck in reverse. _That would have hit one of us!_

"Shots fired!" Low in his seat, Blair had the radio pressed near his lips. "Officers need assistance, Twelfth and Stanford!"

Simon felt the truck jerk to a halt, ducked. "Jim!" _Why are we stopping?_

"White Diamond." Jim's lips were peeled back off his teeth, taking in whiffs of air. "Mulroney's cologne. And blood."

"Just hope it's not ours." Blair glanced at him, at the passenger door. Lifted a brow in silent question.

_Can't even tell him to stay in the truck anymore, damn it_ \- Simon threw open the door, jumped for the nearest bit of cover among the fire-rotted walls.

Something hit, like a sledgehammer to his left ribs. Simon scrabbled for the wall, breathless, only now hearing the crack as bullets bored through air. _At least two shooters._ He didn't dare look down.

"Simon!"

The captain felt at his vest, glared Sandburg back to cover as Jim opened up on their assailants. _No blood. Thank god._ "Cascade PD!" He drew in another breath, shut away the burning agony in his side. "Freeze!" _Who the hell are we shooting at?_

"Mulroney!" Jim growled.

And Blair dove out into the hail of lead, latching onto a red-soaked bundle of rags that had been an aggravating FBI agent.

_Damn it!_ Simon added his cover fire to Jim's, feeling his heart beat like thunder. _Going to kick one anthropologist detective's sorry ass down all seven flights to the basement..._

Mulroney groaned.

_I'll be damned. He's alive._ "Blair!"

"Ambulance is on the way, Frank." Amazing how soothing the guide could sound, even in the middle of a pitched gunfight. "Just hang on, man."

If he hadn't been shooting at a blur of leather and muzzle-flash, Simon would have rolled his eyes. "Not him, you!"

"I'm okay." Blair bent his head near the agent's, listening as the man's lips moved. Blanched. "Jim!"

The sentinel's nostrils were flared, sniffing; eyes narrowed. Gun steady as a rock, he fired.

A strangled gasp, and silence.

"Got him," the sentinel said with satisfaction, moving into the open.

"Jim, no!"

Simon moved before Blair could drop Mulroney, aiming at his best guess on the trajectory of that last blur of leather. _Two for the chest, one for the head-_

"Ahh!" Flesh thumped into old ash.

Breathing hard, Simon dragged his most aggravating detective back to their fragile bit of cover. All the while expecting another fusillade of shots. " _Him_ , sure. You forgot _her!_ "

Jim grimaced. Listened to the wind, the rising sound of sirens. "She's still alive."

"Damn you..." a woman's voice whispered through the wind.

"But not for long."

* * *

  
_Tuna on wheat. Could be worse_ , Vivian thought, munching her way through her second pickle-laced sandwich. _At least it's not that far off the usual starving-grad breakfast._ Noted Ben's sidelong look. "What?"

"No offense, Viv," he nudged up amber glasses, gave her a frank look. "But where the heck do you _put_ all that?"

"'M hungry."

"It was a long night," Matt agreed, hand drifting across the center table until it closed around his mug.

Perched on the loveseat across from the attorney, Viv tried not to stare. _I never thought about how a blind person eats._

Carefully, from what she'd seen. Touch judging and re-judging where every item was, always placing his mug back in the same spot so it wouldn't get mixed with the other two. And every so often taking a delicate sniff of suspect food or drink, just to be sure.

"And when you're eating, you don't have to think," Ben said matter-of-factly.

Pickles turned to ash in her mouth.

"Sorry, Viv," the reporter said, more gently. "But you got to think about what you're gonna do next."

Vivian swallowed dryly, suddenly aware of every twinge in half-healed muscles. Her hands were not shaking. She wouldn't let them. "I told you what happened. On the tape. Isn't that enough?"

"Hearsay," Matt said matter-of-factly. "A vague account of events glimpsed from across the street? All that tape attests to is that someone was having an argument, possibly Graves and Palermo, and a knife _may_ have been involved. No photo IDs, no statement that you've picked anyone out of a lineup? Nothing to identify who else might have been in the room and responsible for the actual killing? Any good defense attorney could raise enough reasonable doubt in a jury's mind to let Graves walk. I could." He spread empty hands. "Nothing convinces like an eyewitness."

"I-" White walls were closing in. Too hot, too tight... "I _can't_."

"Why?"

"They'll kill me!"

"News flash, Viv. They're already trying that." Ben's face was grimmer than she'd ever seen it. "Only way you'll get out from under the gun is to get these guys off the streets for good."

She looked away. "I'll just - I'll keep going. Somewhere else." Disappear into the night. Into stone, and the terrifying rage....

"Running's a damn hard way to live, kid. Sooner or later, everybody slips." Ben leaned closer. "And it won't keep them from going after Es. Nothing will. Not until we stop them."

"I'm scared," Vivian whispered.

"I know." Matt's hand brushed over her arm, warm and comforting. "Someone has to stand up to them, Vivian. Someone has to stop them."

She felt the hot wetness welling up in her eyes. Tried to hold back the tears. "But w-why does it h-have to be me?"

"Chance." Matt touched the side of his glasses, brushed the faded lines of old scars. "Accident. Good, bad, somewhere in-between - sometimes you're just in the wrong place at the wrong time, and it's not your fault. What matters is what you do after the pieces stop falling."

_Accident. I'm going to die because of an accident_.... "C-can we stop them?"

"Homicide was already on the case when we flew out," Ben said levelly. "They're still looking for the body; dragging the Hudson, last I heard. But they got the scene, they got probable cause. You pick the guys out of lineup, they can slam 'em into jail so hard their lawyers'll think they went three rounds with Ali." He took off his glasses, gave her a frank look. "It's gonna be hard, Viv. Maybe the hardest thing you ever do. But you got a chance to get three killers off the streets. You gonna turn your back on that?"

_We have to protect. It's instinct._ Vivian snarled. "You _know_ I can't."

"Uh-uh. I know you _won't_. Big difference." Ben's gaze never wavered. "All the difference in the world."

Vivian dropped her eyes first, drew in a shuddering breath. _It's too tight in here._ "I just - I need some air." Stepping around the red cane, she headed out onto the balcony.

"Accident, huh? Father Everett agree with that?" Ben's wry whisper carried to her ears as she leaned on the rail, laced into the gulls and traffic noise of downtown Cascade. "Don't sound like good Catholic doctrine to me."

"He ministers in Hell's Kitchen," Matt murmured. "Even God's plans get screwed up there."

Ben's chuckle caught Vivian off-guard, touched a part of her that had been stunned for nights. _He's laughing?_ She'd known the reporter for almost three months before he'd cracked a grin. Ben Urich kept the world shut away behind cynical amber lenses, jaded by too many years of death and despair on New York's mean streets. He'd seen it all, penthouse to slum, articles showing shards of city life that pierced the heart like broken glass.

_And he thinks you can do this._ Vivian took a slow, deep breath, let her gaze drift through bird-dusted skies. There was the panicked explosion of rock doves, the slow wheel of gulls, the glimmering black staccato of a cormorant.

A gleam of sun from the street below, stabbing pain from chrome-

_No!_ "Ben!"

Glass shattered behind her; Vivian fell sideways toward the potted plants, clawing where the door had been. "Ben!"

Matt's hand gripped hers, dragged her in with surprising strength. Behind him she could hear Ben's wobbly curses, caught a glimpse of red spreading on the towel the reporter had pressed to his temple. "How many?" the lawyer bit out.

Something in that grim growl echoed in memory, night and fear and blood. Vivian shook it away, pressing the reporter's shaky hand to the wound. _Stay calm! You've got to stay calm. You've got to try! Change right now, you'll end up a statue!_ "I don't know. I don't know! Oh, god-"

"Stay with him." Matt's head tilted; the man crouched slightly away from them, barely breathing. Lips moved, shaped a silent count. Bared teeth in an angry grin. "Three. Coming up the elevator. Two more just busted through the clothing shop, they're on the stairs...."

"I'll block the door," Viv said in a rush.

"No." His swift grip stopped her. "If they can't get in here, they'll take hostages. We've got to get out of here."

"How?" Ben yelped. "They got us boxed!"

Matt's grin froze her blood. "There's only one sniper."

"How do you know that?" Viv demanded.

"Don't ask," Ben said groggily, blinking against the sun as the lawyer dug into his luggage. "You got a plan?"

A pair of red and metal rods clicked as Matt pulled them out. "It's only three stories."

"Only - oh, no." The reporter tried to shake his head, sagged against her. "Uh-uh. No way."

Matt pressed the rods into her hand, demonstrated with a quick flick how they pulled apart to unleash metal cord. Touched the reporter's unwounded cheek, one swift brush of fingers. "Don't be afraid, Ben," he said softly. "You can do anything if you're not afraid."

* * *

  
Watching for the ambulance, Blair wet his lips. "Take Frank."

"Blair-"

"Jim. Please." Blair glanced at Simon, pleading with his eyes.

Simon rose to his feet, wincing at the burn in his side. _Damn. Cracked, definitely._

But if Blair thought he had to talk to a dying woman, he wasn't going alone.

_God. I never get used to what bullets do to a body_.

Worse when one of the bodies was still breathing, blood trickling wet black over brown leather.

Blair reached out, took a bloodstained hand. Ignored the very still, very dead form of one Ignatius Calabrese. "Frank wants to know-" he swallowed. "Why, Kay? Why?"

Kay gave them a crimson smile. "I have been one... acquainted with the night."

"Say what?" Shoving her gun out of reach, Simon blinked.

"I have passed by the watchman on his beat," the dying woman whispered. "And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain..." Her breath caught. "Go under often enough, nobody trusts you anymore. Think you've turned. All the glittery, glory toys, the fun, the killing. Why... not."

"Frank trusted you." Heartbreak ached in Blair's voice. "He wanted you to come home."

"Too bad... for Frank...."

Simon watched the body sag, tried not to watch the tears in Sandburg's eyes. _Hell, Hairboy, ten seconds ago she was shooting at you._

So why were his eyes burning?

_Forget it. Gunpowder in the air. Something._ He worked his way back to the truck, picked up the radio. "Dispatch, this is Captain Banks. Code 30; we need an ambulance at Twelfth and Stanford."

"Simon."

"Not now, Sandburg," Simon grumbled. "We've got a critical Fed, a dead gang-leader, a dead informant-"

"She wasn't an informant, Simon!" Grabbing his wrist, the anthropologist made sure the radio wasn't transmitting. "She was _Frank's agent!_ "

"She was a Fed?" Behind them, Jim cursed. "Simon! Get uniforms to the loft, now!"

The radio crackled. "...Be advised, 911 from 852 Prospect Avenue, 10-71 in progress..."

* * *

  
_There._ Matt traced the rapid heartbeat paired with deliberate, even breaths. Noted the scent of gunpowder, the iron-in-wind ring of the fire escape the man was perched on, the distinctive silver shape of a high-powered rifle.

Alone, he'd take his chances. He'd dodged snipers before.

_But they can't. So let's hope I know how to get you out of there._ "Vivian!"

A chunk of oak landed in his outstretched hand, edged with the scent of ash. "Closest I could find," she said in a rush. "Is that - are you-"

Billy-club in hand, Matt threw the hard lump into the air. Gauged, and swung.

_Crack!_

Matt drew a breath, tracking the grainy echo through wind. _And it's going, going-_

Splintery wood slammed into flesh and bone.

"Aughhh!"

"Go!"

* * *

  
_No way,_ Ben thought, frozen by the gulf below. _I can't._ The world was fading in and out, grayed by a hot burn across his temple that ached all the way to his stomach. _Just let me lie down and pass out._

"Come on!" Tugging his arm, Vivian climbed over the edge. Disappeared.

_Easy for you to say_ , the reporter thought, not moving. Gray, grayer; the world fading into a blurry, red-tinged haze. _You got wings part of the time._

"It's not hard, Ben."

"Oh yeah?"

He heard Matt's grin. "I could do it with my eyes closed."

"Yeah. And I'm gonna have to." Ben swallowed back acid, shut his eyes against gray. "Got me a good one. Everything's spinning."

Breath hissed by his ear. Matt's hand took his, led him to the rail. He heard a subtle, steel creak, felt the shift in grip that must mean the attorney was standing on the edge itself. "Trust me."

"I got a choice?"

"Depends." Matt wrapped the reporter's hands around the grapnel grip. "You feel like arguing with them?"

Even gray couldn't blur the crash of Ellison's front door.

"Ah, hell." Heart in his mouth, Ben fell.

* * *

  
_"Freeze, police!"_

Megan Connor whipped in behind the chorus of uniforms, taking in the latest wreck of Ellison's loft. _Oh. My. Goodness._

A salt breeze blew in through the shattered balcony doors. Ash was flung over polished hardwood, as if someone had burrowed into the wood stove; trailed toward the most whole door, a dark counterpart to drops of blood. More blood dotted half the rug from white and yellow to darkening brown. One leather-clad man was comatose on the kitchen counter, under a bullet-holed skylight. Another had been most effectively jammed into the stair railing. Two more were buried under what was left of the stereo shelves, remnants of the plant that had lived nearby providing a terracotta crown for the unconscious idiot on top. And on the balcony itself....

An officer checked the pulse of the battered form under pieces of white chair, grabbed his radio. "Dispatch, we need ambulances, now!"

"I'll say," Megan murmured.

Behind her, Taggert whistled. "Looks like somebody redecorated in Early Thug."

"Positively mediaeval," the Australian agreed. _Good lord. And Jim wasn't even here._

Which, to one who knew Sentinels, left only one suspect.

_Where_ is _Murdock?_

Her phone rang.

Megan backed toward the staircase, started noting spots to gather evidence. "Connor here."

"Inspector?" A young woman's voice, shaken, but still hanging on.

"Vivian?" _Thank goodness._ "Where are you?"

"Um... we're in a taxi?"

* * *

  
"You're going to wear a hole in the floor," Joel pointed out.

Blair watched the tapping cane halt. Matt touched County General's waiting room wall near Vivian's chair, grimaced. "I don't like hospitals."

"No problem," the anthropologist said neutrally, eyeing the lawyer's neatly bandaged hands. _Joel said your dad was a boxer. Guess we never really get away from family._ "Only, we've got some twitchy people in the ER. Watching friends of their patient pace makes them a little bit jumpy."

"Is that why they let Detective Ellison in with Captain Banks?" One hand fiddling with her sweatshirt cuff, Vivian kept glancing at the exits.

"Ah... something like that."

Matt cocked his head, evidently listening to all the undertones in Blair's voice. "I'd say it's a bad sign when you know all the paramedics by name."

"With you on that one," Blair sighed.

"We're working on it." Joel gripped the younger detective's shoulder. "Soon as we find that trouble magnet, we'll dump it in the incinerator with Vice's latest bust." The ordinance expert stepped back. "So... I guess we have to wait until the doc comes out to find out?"

Vivian gave Matt a sidelong look. "I guess."

Matt let out a slow breath. "Mulroney's still in ICU. They say it's touch and go, but if he makes it through the next eight hours, he ought to be clear. Captain Banks is currently getting his ribs taped and a stern lecture on not trying to shower alone for at least the next week. Ellison's offering to get someone named Rhonda to help." A red brow went up. "For some reason, your captain's not too thrilled with that."

Blair chortled, nudging Joel. Who rolled his eyes, imploring the ceiling tiles.

"And Ben's finally stopped casting allegations on the sniper's prosecutable behavior with innocent farmyard animals." Matt's fingertip traced the silver angel's face on his cane. "The doctor said something about mild concussion and, I quote, 'Put down the pen and the tape recorder before someone gets hurt'."

Vivian gaped.

Matt shrugged. "I listen."

" _I_ listen, and I can't...." The grad student shook her head. "You're... different, aren't you?"

Matt's gaze was inscrutable, hidden behind dark lenses. "I don't like to talk about it."

"Oh yeah. I know about that." Vivian rubbed her arms, as if the air conditioning had suddenly turned up a notch. "At least you don't turn into a monster after dark." Her face brightened, swiveled toward the door. "Es!"

"No," Matt said softly, face turned away as Esmond and Sarah Cannon swooped through the door, a relieved Megan Connor in their wake. "I guess I don't."

Blair worked his way over to the wall under the cover of their happy chatter. Sarah had her stepdaughter in a death-grip, while Es was waving his hands to paint the picture of last night's gun battle in the office building. "You're not going to tell her."

"I haven't made it this far by telling people." Matt gave him an abbreviated shrug. "Thank you."

"Sure, no problem," Blair nodded. Caution kicked in. "What for?"

"Whatever you and Ben did. It... helped." Matt gave him a shadowy smile. "I don't think I would have hit that sniper otherwise."

_And thank you for reminding me of that little fact_. Blair shuddered. The paramedics had found the sniper six blocks away, in shock and bleeding from his eye-socket, and he didn't want to remember the rest of the gory details. Sure, life and death, but... ugh. "It's not a permanent fix," he warned. "You and Ben are going to have to work something out." _Maybe better than I did._

"I think we will." The lawyer's smile turned wry. "We'll have another day here to try. Dr. Robert was pretty firm on Ben not flying for twenty-four hours. Something about pressure changes being a bad idea with a possible brain injury."

Gaah. Twenty-four more hours for these two to rip through Cascade. "That's... great."

"We'll probably spend most of it on-campus at Rainier," Matt went on matter-of-factly. "Nice, quiet... I plan to look up one or two of your law professors, talk about the merits of some recent civil cases here in Cascade. The laws aren't the same in New York, of course, but there were a few interesting arguments that might apply. And Ben thought he was on the track of something interesting." Dark lenses looked straight at him. "Possibly criminal misconduct by a certain university official?"

Blair froze.

A red brow lifted. "Have you talked to Dr. Kelso lately?"

"Ah..."

"I would." Worsted suit and all, the smile was pure Daredevil. "But then, I'm not you."

* * *

  
_And they're off_ , Jim thought, watching the flight for New York clear the edge of Cascade International's airspace. _Thank god._ Winced, and worked his jaw; even with Blair's help turning down his hearing, being this close to the airfield made his ears ache.

"Couldn't just take their word for it, could you." Simon leaned his arms on Blair's open window, regarding his pair of detectives. "You had to make sure they were gone."

Jim stifled a sneeze; the nasal assault from the rental car had started with cigarette smoke, gone through five varieties of perfume, and ended with ancient mustard. "Wanted to be sure Mulroney's office didn't pull them in while they were scrambling to put the pieces together on Dorcea Kant." The entire Organized Crime Task Force was scrabbling for cover, trying not to explain how one of their undercover officers had gone dirty. It would have been funny if it weren't so serious. "And everybody lies to the police."

Blair stirred in his seat, watching the sky. "Leaving a few facts out isn't always lying."

_Aha!_ Jim skewered his partner with a glance. The anthropologist had been too quiet all morning. _I_ knew _they were up to something._ "So what did they leave out?"

Silence. Blair's fingers wove together, unraveled. "Ben said he wouldn't say anything about Sentinels. Or you, Simon."

"Thanks for small favors," the captain grumbled.

_Good_ , Jim thought. _But I know a deflection when I hear one._ "Blair-"

The anthropologist's cell rang. "Sandburg," he picked up hurriedly.

Curious, Jim listened in.

"Blair." Steven's voice, eagerly interested. "I was looking at those notes of Professor Kelso's, and-"

"Ah, I'm in the truck."

"Oh. Right. Well, give me a call when you can."

"Steven and Jack Kelso?" Jim asked. "What's going on?"

"No such thing as a private conversation sometimes." Blair implored the roof of the truck. "For your information, it's a surprise. Okay?"

No. Definitely not okay. "I hate surprises, Chief."

"Tell me about it. So do you think you can make it over to the loft tonight?" Blair flashed an infectious grin Simon's way. "I can borrow some materials from the physics lab; carbon, insulating plastic, some sheet steel. And a voltmeter should be easy."

"What?" Simon backed up.

"For the levin-bolts," the anthropologist explained. "Come on, Simon, we've got to test this! Bio-electricity is _way_ cool."

Watching the shocked realization settle into his captain's face, Jim snickered. "Welcome to the other side, Simon."

* * *

  
Leaning into the plane window, Vivian gazed down into a net of broken clouds, laced with stone and steel. Swallowed back the gnawing fear. _New York. The City That Never Sleeps._

The city where she'd face a killer. Again.

Matt sighed beside her, tension easing out of suited shoulders. "Home."

"Some home," Ben grumbled from the aisle seat. "Hell's Kitchen, Matt. The original concrete jungle. Chew you up and spit you out, and never think twice."

"Home," the attorney agreed softly.

"Yeah." A rare smile glimmered on Ben's cynical face. "Yeah, it is." The tan cap tilted her way. "What d'you say, Viv? You up to it?"

_Home,_ Vivian thought. _For now, anyway._

_And home is worth fighting for_.

She gave him a shaky thumbs-up. "So where do we start?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LAPD Ten Codes:
> 
> Code 30: Officer needs help, emergency.  
> 10-71: Shooting.
> 
> Acquainted With the Night -Robert Frost
> 
> I have been one acquainted with the night.  
> I have walked out in rain - and back in rain.  
> I have outwalked the furthest city light.
> 
> I have looked down the saddest city lane.  
> I have passed by the watchman on his beat  
> And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.
> 
> I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet  
> When far away an interrupted cry  
> Came over houses from another street,
> 
> But not to call me back or say good-bye;  
> And further still at an unearthly height,  
> One luminary clock against the sky
> 
> Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.  
> I have been one acquainted with the night.


End file.
